Games of Zeus 02- Silent Echoes

by Aimee Laine

  Sherrill’s smile reached across her face. “My grandparents helped Lexi and Tripp solve their, let’s call it, relationship issues, so they could have a future together.”

  “Um … okay.” From Taylor’s perspective, everyone had relationship issues.

  Sherrill flipped the page and patted the album box. “If Lexi saw a photo my grandparents had, and that pointed you here? You’re connected to my Grandparents. In some way.”

  Taylor’s head whipped from Sherrill to Ian and back. “What? What does that mean?”

  Ian’s cell buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket. “This is Tripp. Can we take two minutes?”

  “Absolutely,” Sherrill said. “Would you care to join me for some lemonade, Taylor?”

  As Ian moved to the front door, Taylor stood and followed Sherrill, all the while wondering how her face—her spitting image as her mother liked to say—could be in a picture, in an album, in a house, owned by a woman she’d never met, and no one seemed even remotely wigged out by it.

  • • •

  The afternoon sun brought life to the earth. Fragrance from the various flowering shrubs and plants hit Ian until three sneezes came out in quick succession. “Shit. Sorry.” He pinched his nostrils shut to stem the oncoming tickle that pulsed high up in his sinuses. “What’s up?”

  Tripp chuckled through the phone. “Riley stopped by.”

  Ian’s entire body tensed. “Why?”

  “To check on Taylor, of course.”

  “And?” Ian trusted Tripp not to give away any of their excursion.

  “He’s a very astute guy.”

  Ian walked the length of the path as two cars passed on the road. “What’d he say?”

  “It’s what he didn’t say,” Tripp said. “I told him you and Taylor were ‘out’ de-stressing. His jaw clenched quite a few times before he said to tell you thanks.”

  “Thanks for what?” Ian meandered back toward the house.

  “For being where he can’t be for Taylor. I think he really does see her as a sister.”

  “That’s it?” Ian stopped at the stoop.

  “No. He also said that if we were to provide any information to him, on her behalf, he might be persuaded to ensure its safekeeping or get it into the right hands.”

  Ian’s cheek muscles pulled up his lips. “Not just astute but stellar.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think he came over just for that?”

  “No.” Tripp’s single word came out serious. “He needed to tell me that there was some disturbance at Taylor’s house. The ground got pretty messed up overnight. Not that it wasn’t already, but apparently, the scientists that showed up this morning mentioned it.”

  “Hmmm,” Ian said.

  “Seems a bunch of animals must have traipsed through the site. Deer. Maybe dog or coyote. The thunderstorm did a damn good job of flattening everything out, but left those footprints.”

  “Well, then.” Ian kept his inner worry contained. “We found the photos.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “Sherrill was just about to tell us more about them when you interrupted.”

  “Well, why the hell did you answer the phone then?”

  “I thought it might be important!” Ian stomped up the steps. “Next time you call, I’m gonna ignore you.” Laughter came through until Ian hovered his finger over the off button.

  “One more update.”

  “Oh?” Ian leaned against the frame of the house.

  “Your source in Alabama called and said Tanner Meadows died in a bar fight in Tennessee three years ago.”

  “Son of a bitch. I was hoping he’d have his fingerprints all over this somehow, and we’d be done with it.”

  “I know.” A sigh came through the line. “The mystery continues.”

  15

  Ian followed voices until he found Taylor and Sherrill in her kitchen along with the album they’d searched through before. Unlike his apartment in New York and Lexi’s homestyle, modern but cozy place in North Carolina, Sherrill’s kitchen screamed commercial. Stainless steel appliances and sleek, silver pots mixed with black granite and marble counters.

  “Nice place you got here.” Ian took a stool as had Taylor and Sherrill.

  “Everything okay?” Taylor sipped from a tall, frosted glass.

  Sherrill slid a third in Ian’s direction.

  “Thanks.” Fresh-squeezed lemonade moved across his tongue—not too sugary and not too tart all at once. “Nothing major. Just checking in.”

  Taylor gave him a small nod.

  “So, what’d I miss?”

  “Nothing yet,” Sherrill said. “We just got the drinks ready.”

  Ian took another swig of the fresh beverage.

  Taylor’s fingers circled her drink, but she didn’t bring it to her lips. A few blinks. A click of her nails. “Who’re those people in that picture, Sherrill? The real ones.”

  Sherrill failed to hide the smirk behind her own glass, but set it down and opened the album again. “The man was a farmer who worked my great-grandparent’s land—Marge’s parent’s land.”

  Ian dropped the glass to the counter with a thud. “You’re not telling me he was a slave, are you?”

  Sherrill held up a hand. “Oh, no. Not at all. My great-grandparents were very progressive-thinking. Back then, they rented out their lands. To anyone. They had a whole slew of farmers working them, according to the records I’ve found. They paid rent, helped feed the family, and the farmers reaped the rewards of owning their own businesses. It was a very modern way of working.”

  The air Ian held gushed from him. A farmer working his lands. A farmhouse. “Why do I sense some sort of …”

  Sherrill’s grin spread. “Relationship? Tryst, perhaps?”

  Ian nodded.

  “The story my grandmother told is that her mother and father found the two together once, under one of the biggest oaks at the edge of the lands—right where its roots would meet the small pond at the back of their property. They begged them to keep their secret.” Sherrill sipped some more. “They did, of course. Though my great-grandparents liked to keep an eye on them after that. They said the two shared glances, small waves and hellos, but outside of those, no one knew. Of course, no one in their right mind would have dared attempt a relationship like that back then. So, these two were either crazy, or they must have shared a love that went beyond their time.” She tapped the Taylor-looking person in the photo. “We live in a different world today—one not bound by cultural, racial and ethnic rules.”

  “What happened to them?” Taylor scratched at her right ring finger.

  Ian’s own itched each time she did it.

  “My grandmother never said.”

  “Who photographed them?” Taylor asked.

  “My great-grandmother. Cameras had just come out back then, for commercial use, that is, and her father had been asked to work with it. She tracked his footsteps as much as possible, I believe.” Sherrill took the album back, thumbed through until she returned it, another page of sketches appearing. “The other thing my great-grandmother was fond of was inks. She loved making them from plants and made a semi-sort of ballpoint pen shaft for herself that she could fill with her inks.”

  “Very inventive,” Taylor said.

  “Yes, indeed.” The images Sherrill showed off had a deep blue-grey tone to them.

  “Why haven’t these faded?” Taylor asked.

  “I wish I knew. I only attribute it to my great-grandmother’s own form of magic. She was a very, very unique woman. She used to say, and mind you, this was when she was in her upper nineties, and I was less than eight—so my memory could be off. But she’d say: If people knew who they once were, they’d have had a heck of an easier time dealing with who they are.” She turned farther into the album and sighed. “This is my great-grandmother’s self portrait.”

  “Ooh!” Taylor shifted forward, her fingers scratching her ring again. “What’s that on her hand?”
/>   Ian peered closer. In the ink of the image, on the woman’s right hand, a design had been etched. Like his tattoo. And Taylor’s. Only completely different.

  “Ah, that’s her tattoo. A self made one, supposedly, because no white woman of prosperity would be branded openly like this back then.” Sherrill chuckled. “So again, you can see just how unique she was.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow, noting Taylor continued to twist at the band on her finger. That she didn’t stare down at it suggested to him that the action was more habit than anything, but he didn’t remember her doing so during any of the last few days. His own itched, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  Sherrill turned to the back of the album.

  A small, envelope-like folder attached to the inner back. Her fingers slid inside, and when they came out, she had a photo in between her fingers. “I took the liberty of making copies of all the images before we heirloomed them … you know, just in case I wanted to reframe them.” She slid two toward Taylor. “You can have one if you’d like.”

  Taylor held it. She stared at it. A flip brought the other side over. In the lower corner, words waited to be read in an old handwriting: My Dearest. Remember me.

  “What’s this?” Taylor’s voice carried at just above a whisper.

  Sherrill’s shoulders rose and fell, though with a slight incline toward Taylor. “I don’t know. Almost all the photos have writing on them. It was customary early on to help date them.”

  Taylor’s nails made no sound against her skin as she scratched at her finger again.

  “You okay, there?” Ian asked. “You been digging at that the whole time.”

  “Sorry. It’s itchy.” She pulled off the ring.

  “Oh, wow,” Sherrill said.

  • • •

  Taylor rubbed at her right ring finger and wiped it on her pants leg. “I must have gotten a bug bite.” She looked up to Ian and wiggled her hand. “Sometimes it does this.”

  “Is … that a tattoo?” Sherrill asked.

  “No. It’s been there all my life.”

  Sherrill scooped up the ring Taylor had pulled off. “What’s this one that you wear?” She turned it around as if studying it.

  “It’s my grandpa’s. He gave it to me before he passed away.”

  Sherrill’s nod coincided with her, ‘Ahh’. “You stay connected with your family through heirlooms like this one.” Sherrill rose from her stool.

  Taylor narrowed her eyes. “I guess.” Her head bobbed up and down. “Actually, yes.” She stuck the band as far up on her other ring finger. The switch to her right gave her an odd, out-of-balance sensation.

  “I want you to see something.” Sherrill opened a drawer and withdrew a large magnifying glass. At the counter, she held it over the photo of the Taylor and Ian lookalikes. “It takes a magnifying glass to see it, but it’s there. Look at the woman’s hand.”

  Ian snuck next to Taylor, their faces touching at their cheeks.

  Taylor took in the face staring back at her, what looked to be light eyes, blondish hair, smooth skin and cheekbones that matched her own. The man beside her held an expression of pain and happiness—a mix Taylor understood well.

  “Do you see the pattern inked around this woman’s finger?” The humor in Sherrill’s voice had Taylor shifting in her seat.

  She squinted but could only really make out a faint line around the woman’s right ring finger until she put the magnifying glass over it, and it came out in full relief. “Oh. My. God.”

  Behind her, tension radiated from Ian’s body.

  “That symbol is there, on her finger, isn’t it?” Sherrill asked.

  Tingling encompassed Taylor’s arm. The same design, barely visible with the glass, but definitely there, showed. Taylor couldn’t tell on the man’s finger as his dark skin and the photo’s depth of field prevented her from seeing it.

  “It’s no wonder Lexi sent you to me.” A small laugh accompanied Sherrill’s smile. “My grandmother used to laugh and tell me that her mother believed if you marked yourself in one life, that mark would carry on into the next.” She gave a small chuckle.

  “Do you believe that?” Why do I believe her? Taylor dug at her finger again.

  Sherrill took Taylor’s hands in hers. “Like I said, my great-grandmother was unique. So yes, I believe it.”

  “So, this woman and I have the same mark. Does that mean we’re related? Is she one of my ancestors? How is this possible?” Are we the reincarnation of these people in the photo?

  “Now that, I don’t know. In all honesty, I don’t know who these people are or why my grandparents kept these photos, but they did. For a long time, they hung right where Lexi said—next to the mantel.” The chime of five p.m. rang through from a Grandfather clock somewhere in the house, and Sherrill laid her hands back on the countertop. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “Actually …” Ian leaned forward after his complete and utter lack of participation in the conversation. “We’ve got another appointment. With Tripp’s sister.”

  Sherrill’s smile bloomed. “It’s been a few weeks since I talked with Missy last. How is she?”

  “Busy,” Ian said. “Seems someone gave her name out to a few potential clients, and she has three different houses to design the interiors for.”

  Sherrill’s expression didn’t change. “Sometimes, one needs a boost. Other times, they need a downright kick in the butt.” A light laugh rang through the kitchen. “She’s not so different from her brother but even more headstrong. Please tell Missy I said hello.”

  “Absolutely.” Ian took Taylor’s hand as they followed Sherrill to the door and stepped into the evening sun.

  “Thank you for everything, Sherrill.” Taylor infused her voice with kindness despite the frustration of the hours-long conversation and more questions than answers result.

  Sherrill pulled Taylor in for a hug.

  Ian moved in for the same. “Nice to finally put a face to a name.”

  “You, too, Ian. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  • • •

  Once in the confines of the car, Taylor turned to Ian. “Do you think we are those people? Is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know.” His grip on the wheel suggested he might have some of the same problems she did with their little adventure.

  She pulled her hand away. “I hate mysteries, Ian. I read the end of books before I hit chapter three. I hate not knowing what’s coming or going, who is and who isn’t. I hate that my life doesn’t have order anymore. Yet, you don’t even seem fazed by this.”

  He leaned back against the seat. “I’m processing. It’s what I do best. Get the facts. Lay them all out and figure out what they mean. Then, make up my mind. But right now, I don’t feel like I have all the facts. So, I can’t be fazed or not fazed. I just … am.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that we could be the reincarnation of two people from a hundred years ago?”

  “Key word, could.” Ian bumped his head against the frame of the car a few times. “Lexi has told me hundreds of times that she’s never wrong. But, I just don’t know.” He turned toward Taylor. “We are who we are. You’re sitting right here next to the real me. Those people in the picture aren’t actually us.”

  “I know. I know. You’re right.” She ran her fingers around her tattoo band again. “But this … this symbol … this thing on my finger. Your finger. That has to mean we’re the same, right?”

  “I have a freckle on my ass, Taylor. So does my dad. Does that mean we’re the same person?”

  She laughed and fell back against the seat. “Ugh! All this is so frustrating. There are so many balls up in the air.”

  “Can I just say that that analogy really doesn’t work? Especially when talking to a guy.” He started the car and navigated them onto the street. “Because, you know, our balls just don’t float.”

  More chuckles came from her. “Strings to pull? Is that better? It’s like intertwin
ing stories, one crossing over the other. I’d swear, though, something inside me says they’re all connected. And, like we all know, history does like to repeat itself. I’m just waiting for it to explode right in front of my eyes.”

  A right took them farther away from downtown. “Well … when it all boils over, flames up, sparks, whatever, we’ll see what happens. But right now, I’m getting hungry, and Missy’s waiting. Well, probably not waiting as she doesn’t know how to sit still, but you women know what I mean.”

  Taylor heaved a sigh.

  “Go ahead. Say whatever it is you’re holding back.” Ian stopped at a traffic light, the blare of another car’s radio rumbling theirs.

  “The whole last week has been one weird experience after another, and I can’t explain any of it. Can’t explain why I have a permanent ring on my finger, either, but for some reason, I never really cared before—or not enough to do anything about it. Now, though? It might connect me to a woman from forever ago who doesn’t exist anymore. And that really freaks me out.”

  Ian turned onto a road with a mix of gorgeous homes, some in mid-repair and others in downright need of being torn down. “Well, since you don’t like mysteries, go in reverse. Pick this one apart. Deconstruct instead of build.” The car stopped at the curb in front of a dilapidated Victorian. “Just don’t do it with a sledgehammer. That obviously doesn’t come with a happily ever after.”

  • • •

  Taylor rose from the car, wishing for a moment she could think beyond the flurry of questions running through her head. A photo of a person who could be buried in my yard, found by some woman who saw it on a wall. A tattoo I have on my own finger. Two people who look like us. What in high heavens is going on?

  “Ian!” The high pitched voice forced Taylor to turn. A tiny woman with a crop of short, black hair and a smile as wide as her face bounced as she made her way down the weed-strewn path. “You made it.” She stopped when she reached Ian, held out her fist and waited.

  He stepped to her, bumped it and grabbed her, twirling her around in a fierce hug.

  “I’m so excited you guys got to come by!” When he let go, the woman walked closer, her hand outstretched. “I’m Missy, Tripp’s sister.” The resemblance to her brother showed in her eyes.