“Eve?” Griff said.
“Ball up, girl,” Danny snapped. “Keep going.”
I did.
“. . . a sin of omission,” I read.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Tupelo, Mississippi
1934
It had been exactly five and a half weeks since Charles Jarrod introduced the beautiful young redhead as his new wife. They’d been crisscrossing the southeast since, from church to church, town to town, leading revivals, and Dove Davidson had certainly turned out to be quite a help. She was a natural, leading the singing and getting the people to come down for prayer, and everyone loved her.
Fingers templed, Charles watched Dove sleep in the room at the motor lodge they’d gotten just outside Tupelo. He chided himself for the hundredth time. As much as he might like her to be, this young woman was not his wife. It was just a story he told everyone. A necessary lie.
But she was lovely, so lovely. The way she lay on her back, soft white arms flung to the side, perfect, delicate face lifted to the ceiling as if lost in a dream. It nearly incapacitated him. He wasn’t sure what she would think, but he could see a version of the future where the lie they’d been telling became truth.
Her beauty might overwhelm his, but even more arresting was the effect of her presence. She was like a balm to his soul. An unexpected oasis in a life that had begun to feel more and more like wasted wilderness. A lonely trip through towns he couldn’t tell apart and didn’t care much to remember. But then Ruth had come. Dove. She was more healing than any prayer.
Just watching her sleep, he felt his soul finally at rest.
He thought back to her prayer that first night in the car. It had not been as silent as she’d meant it to be. In her exhaustion and delirium, she’d spoken of someone named Dell, someone she clearly loved. Someone she wanted to have the coin. He had felt an unreasonable pang of jealousy and then chided himself again. If Dove loved this man, then he must be worthy. And besides, he was only here to help the girl. Nothing more.
But still—being a man of weak flesh—he’d held on to the coin.
Tonight’s meeting had been a good one, well attended, and it brought in a nice offering. For the first time since Dove joined, folks had come down front during the singing, lining up at the stage. They were waiting for prayer from her, not him, and it brought a smile to his lips. Like him, they saw the light that surrounded her, a nimbus of joy and good humor and fire, and found themselves helplessly drawn to the warmth.
He couldn’t blame them, but he couldn’t lie to himself; his motives were not completely pure. He did, quite honestly and truly, care about helping Ruth and her friend escape their situation with Arthur Holt. But there had been an additional motivation as well. He’d found himself thinking of her, dreaming of her, ever since their first meeting in Florence. When her letter had come, it had felt as if he’d somehow conjured it up through the sheer force of his desire.
And lately, the more time he’d spent with her and gotten to know her, he’d become more than slightly attached to her. At the oddest times, he would catch himself wondering what the delightful redhead looked like under her clothes. Imagining the feel of her skin under his hand. He dealt with these carnal thoughts much as he did any other carnal thought—he ignored them. Not just because they didn’t befit a man of God, but because he valued her company above anything else. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off.
On this night, after he and Dove arrived at the motor lodge, he’d let her use the bathroom and settled in the chintz chair by the window to wait his turn. He’d made a promise to himself and to her, and he intended to keep it. She would not be touched. And he would not scare her away with his feelings. She was too precious for that. Too important.
And he’d made his decision.
Leaving Dove sleeping in the narrow bed, he carefully backed the car out of the gravel lot and headed east. He drove for hours, sipping from a thermos of coffee and smoking Lucky Strikes, finally crossing into Alabama just as the sun warmed the pine-studded horizon.
Pritchard Insane Hospital’s brick and limestone facade was laced with rot and mold and thick fingers of angry ivy that looked as if it’d made a blood vow to never release its hold on the stalwart walls. Many of the windows were cracked or missing altogether. The trim needed painting, and if there had been a sidewalk leading to the yawning front entrance, it had long ago eroded.
There were trees—two regal magnolias anchoring the wings of the hospital, and a lovely hawthorn just to the left of the building. An ancient man, emaciated and still, sat on a chair beside the hawthorn. He looked as old as the building, a sort of kindly Cerberus, guarding the gates of Hades. Charles approached and the man doffed his cap.
“Young man.” He spoke in a thin, gravelly voice. “Here to see a friend?”
“No,” Charles answered. “No friends here.”
The old man laughed, a wheezy, phlegmy sound. “Me neither. Not anymore.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Tuscaloosa, Alabama
Present
Charles confessed to me last night, dearest Bruna, a sin of omission that he committed against me. Against, he says, the Almighty . . .
Dove’s final letter to Bruna explained almost everything. Between that and the insistent throbbing in my arm, I’d realized our search was not over. Which was why we were headed back to Pritchard.
Althea drove her SUV down the oak-shaded drive, the Alabama sun knifing its way through the thick branches and protective tent of leaves as it set. Jason followed in his Lexus. This time the drive to Pritchard felt less like a scene from a horror movie, and more like the fulfillment of a promise made long ago. That fulfillment—the answer—that started with Dove’s final letter to Bruna.
. . . there are things I must tell you. Your beloved grandfather and my dear employer, Steadfast Coe, gave me a coin, the Flowing Hair Dollar your family accused me (and then Dell) of stealing. The night Steadfast gave it to me he was in possession of his good mind, I swear to you. He fully intended it to be mine . . .
Althea drew into a space in front of the old hospital and the five of us piled out. Jason parked his car nearby and joined us by the fountain. I shaded my eyes and surveyed the fortresslike building. Stalwart and dignified against the blue-and-pink-striped sky, Pritchard’s red bricks and granite seemed to defy the battering they’d taken through the years. Surely the hospital held its secrets, but there was only one I was interested in. Dove’s.
. . . tonight, Charles has confessed. He heard my prayer that night, the night we left the fair, that God would take the coin. That He would miraculously transport it to a particular spot that only Dell and I knew of. Charles heard my prayer and took the coin himself . . .
Althea touched my shoulder. “Eve. I just wanted to say, thank you for not . . . kicking me out of the search party. Thank you for letting me stay.”
I smiled. “You helped me find my grandmother. For that I’ll never be able to repay you.” I hugged her and she gripped me so hard I nearly lost my breath.
“I know how you can repay me.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You could pray for Jay.”
I smiled at her and shook my head. “I don’t suppose you’ll listen when I say I don’t have any special powers.”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “You believe your way, I’ll believe mine.”
The lines of Dove’s letter ran through my head again. I’d read it so many times on the way down from Ember’s, I’d practically memorized it.
. . . oh, Bruna. Fool that I am, I convinced myself that God had taken pity on me, that He’d forgiven me all the playacting I’d done in his name and granted me a true miracle. But I was young and frightened and wanted to believe . . .
I turned in the direction of the old, gnarled tree that crowned the velvet lawn, a survivor of decades and storms and droughts. When I reached its blooming canopy, I ducked under and was enveloped in an enchanted leafy world. I ran my hands over the thin bark, its knots a
nd whorls. A line of fat black ants scuttled along a branch on some urgent errand.
And now for the sin. It seems Charles held on to the coin for a full five weeks, contemplating what to do. Perhaps turn me in as a thief? Sell the coin for himself? But he resisted temptation and, resolving to be a man of honor, decided to honor my prayer and leave it for Dell . . .
“Eve,” Griff said from somewhere behind me. But I was too lost in my thoughts to answer him. I felt like I’d entered a different dimension, protected from the outside world. It was strange, but I could feel my grandmother’s presence in this place. All around this tree.
He drove to Alabama and hid the coin—where, I dare not write in this letter. Then, by what means he wouldn’t reveal, he sent word to Dell . . .
I parted the branches to see Griff holding out a pocketknife, its serrated edge gleaming. I reached for it, but he held it back and caught my hand.
“Wait,” he said.
“What?”
“I just want you to know. Whatever happens, whether you find the coin or not, I . . .” He faltered.
My gaze stayed steady. “I know. Me too.”
His face went a little red and he let go of my hand. “Okay. Careful. It’s sharp.”
I nodded and ducked back under the tree.
. . . but today, an end to that story. And the reason for Charles’s distress. Finally, news of Dell Davidson has arrived. He was shot down in a lonely French Quarter alley, between a feed store and an abandoned warehouse. Gunned down by police officers in pursuit of a man suspected of robbing the Banque de L’Etat de la Louisiane . . .
The trunk of the tree was knotty, some of the knots filled with tar. But farther down, just at the base of the bole, I noticed one large protrusion that looked different.
My soul, my heart, my love. He’s gone, Bruna . . .
I dropped to my knees and felt the bump. It was a type of blister, a short, swollen scar running across the trunk around which the bark had grown. Gripping the knife, I began to hack at the blister. I chopped and chopped, gouging out chunks of bark and wood.
As I dug, I exposed the tree’s core—raw sapwood or the heart; I wasn’t sure what it was called. But it was redolent with the same sickly sweet smell of the blooms. I’d almost cut away the entire surface of the blister, when I saw something. A flash of blue-green . . .
Dell never retrieved the coin, but Charles has no doubt if he’d left it earlier, if he hadn’t entertained his temptation, Dell might not have felt compelled to rob the bank . . .
I pried the object out using the tip of the blade as a lever. It rolled into my palm and I stared in a state of surprise. A marble.
What I do know is that Dell never accepted the gift I offered—that was mine to offer. He made his choice and now I make mine.
Beneath it, I found a second treasure. An amber marble.
I stabbed again at the wood, digging and gouging into the heart of the tree, and then finally the blade hit metal. After chipping carefully around the edges, I saw copper laced with a green patina. I pulled at it.
The coin is yours, Bruna. I give it to you. Think back to our first meeting, that first day at Steadfast’s house, when you interviewed me for the job, and I told you about Dell. In that conversation, I told you where to find the coin. Remember? I know you do. So then find it and start a new life, any life you choose.
I brushed enough of the rotted wood away that I could see the engraved image. A woman encircled by stars, hair streaming behind her, face lifted to the sky. Liberty 1794, it read. I stared at it, not believing what I was seeing, not wanting to move in case this was a dream that I would wake up from.
Now’s your chance, my sweet Bruna. Sell Steadfast’s coin, buy yourself a piano, and sing to the children all day long if you like. Sing the old hymns, the happy ones, and when you do, tell the children about your old friend Ruth.
I have loved you, Bruna, with all my heart and soul. And I loved Dell. Now, I find that I love Charles too, in a way—and what can be wrong about that? It’s a marvel, isn’t it, when the lie becomes the truth?
I dropped the knife and stumbled out from under the tree. I held up the coin, still partially encased in wood, for the rest to see.
“I found it,” I said, my voice shaky. “I found it.”
Althea put a hand to her mouth. Griff and Danny and Jason stood very still. It was only Ember who approached me, her face glowing in the red-orange sunset.
“The Flowing Hair.” Her words came out in a fevered rush. Her eyes were dancing fires, her face flushed pink. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“I guessed,” I said firmly. “Dove told us once about how she and a boy used to leave presents for each other in this tree. She must’ve told Bruna that too. And I just put it together.”
She shook her head. “Or maybe it was your arm. Maybe Dove was somehow telling you through your arm.”
“No—”
“Stranger things have happened. Dove and Bruna healed people.”
I wasn’t going to win this argument with Ember, but what did it matter? No matter who was right, the Flowing Hair Dollar was in my hand. And now I knew its story.
Charles had hidden the coin for Dell, and then later Dove had told Bruna where it was, and that it was hers for the taking. But when neither Dell nor Bruna came for it, Dove must’ve intended it for someone else. That must’ve been the other reason she’d left all her money for the hospital’s restoration. She’d wanted to safeguard the coin in this old hawthorn tree. Maybe, I couldn’t help thinking, Dove thought I’d be able to solve the riddle. Maybe she suspected all along that I had a trace of her gift.
Maybe, in a way, Ember was right.
It was almost too much to wrap my head around.
I dropped the coin into Ember’s hand. “Split it with me?”
“No.” Ember looked taken aback. “Steadfast gave it to Dove. And you and your mom and Danny are her heirs.”
“But Dove left it here for Bruna. She said so in the letter,” I countered.
Ember gave me a conspiratorial smirk. “All right, so we split it. But what the hell does a person do with . . .”
“Seven million dollars?” I said. “Roughly.”
“Seven million dollars.” Ember breathed the words. Then our eyes locked and we both burst into giggles. When we gained our composure, we just stared at each other, wide-eyed.
“What do you think Bruna would’ve done with it?” I asked.
Ember’s eyes went dreamy. “She would’ve taken her kids and left Arthur. Left Alabama. Traveled maybe . . .” She shook her head. “She used to tell me about going with her parents to Palm Beach. And the Greenbrier. If she’d had the courage.”
“You have courage, Ember, so much of it. So go to Palm Beach and the Greenbrier. For her. Then come home—back to your house—and buy it from Jason if you want. Then do whatever you want to do next.”
Her eyes were wet, her voice soft and serious. “Okay, but first, I’m going to throw a big-ass party. And you better come.”
I threw my head back and laughed. A laugh brimming with expectation and hope. Oh, I’d go to Ember’s party. I’d be the first there and the last to leave. I’d throw caution to the wind, let my hair down. I’d embody all the clichés. I’d celebrate and drink too much and not worry about secrets ever again.
And I’d dance with Griff Murray. Hell, yes. I would definitely dance with Griff.
He was walking toward me now, and when he reached me, he swept me into his arms and kissed me. I breathed him in, and the kiss, and the words of Dove’s letter rang in my head.
. . . I hope to see you again, dear Bruna. I’ve planted a hawthorn in my yard just for you. I won’t cut blooms from it until you come to me. When you’re set up in your new life, bring Artie and Deborah for a visit to California and we’ll dance around it.
Do come . . .
Dove
That chilly October night, after a dinner of vegetable soup and a slice of sourdough, Dove settled on
to the peeling wrought iron divan on her stone terrace to watch the warm California day darken to night. And to consider calling her granddaughter one more time.
This time, Dove wouldn’t bother trying to lure Eve with afternoon tea at a fancy hotel. No, she’d tell the girl the whole story while she had her on the phone. She’d tell her the truth that had been locked away for so many years, so Eve could decide for herself how she would face her future.
But as the night deepened from purple to blue to black, she just continued sitting on the terrace. She admired how well her hawthorn tree had adapted to the silty clay soil in her yard. It had become quite a tree, sturdy and fine. She’d never cut a single bloom from its branches. Dove threw back her head to search for the Big Dipper and savored the feel of the autumn air as it wrapped its smoky cloak around her.
She was procrastinating, she knew. It made her marvel at the magnitude of her cowardice. Ninety-five and still behaving like a scared jackrabbit! She couldn’t even call her granddaughter and talk the stuff of life. But she’d always been this way, hadn’t she? Reluctant to admit when she didn’t fully understand. Reluctant to tell the truth when it was complex. Then reluctant to face those she’d lied to.
Ah, yes. She’d procrastinated another time, years ago, when Eve showed up on her doorstep. Procrastinated then copped out altogether, sending poor Eve off with some cryptic excuse. But she had her reasons. She wanted to protect her granddaughter. From confusion, from doubt. From the pain that came when faith was disappointed.
So she’d told Eve that it had all been a lie. Of course, that, too, had been a lie. But now lies wouldn’t do. Now it was time for the truth . . .
The whole truth, which was simply this:
The great evangelist Dove Jarrod had not faked all of it.
There had been a few, just a handful, of true miracles. A sick baby in Huntsville. A woman with kidney stones. And Old Steadfast, that day when she’d brushed his hair and he came back to himself. Others, too, the memories of which she’d tucked away in the back of her mind . . .
Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters Page 28