TB senses I’m holding back. He shakes his head and returns to his work.
“I’m leaving in the morning,” he says.
I’m halfway removing my pants but I jolt up, almost toppling over. “What? No!”
“There’s no reason for me to stay. I’m in the way of whatever you’re doing.”
I finally pull off the offending pants and throw them at the chair, and miss.
“TB, I need you here.” In more ways than one.
He closes his laptop and pulls off his glasses, placing both on the side table. “I don’t know what you need anymore, Vi. But I need to go home.”
I haven’t seen him this despondent since I asked for a divorce after Katrina. When we got back together this summer, I thought things were moving along nicely.
“I need you,” I tell him. A small voice inside my head insists I add how much I love him, too, but the words fail to come. I’m too drunk.
He smiles sadly. “Do you? Then tell me what’s going on.”
I want so badly to explain, to ask about his angelic ways. Does he even know what he is? More than anything, I want to jump that long trim body and make wild love in an antebellum bed. But I hear Carmine’s insistence in my head, to keep everything under wraps. That maybe it’s best my simple-minded husband who loves unconditionally not know of his powers. That in order for him to keep me safe, I must do the same for him.
So, I say nothing.
“Good-night, Vi.” TB turns off the light on his side of the bed. “I’ll be gone after breakfast.”
Standing in the middle of that enormous plantation room, I feel like Scarlet O’Hara at the end of Gone With the Wind, when she finally comes to her senses about Rhett Butler but it’s too late. Maybe not, I think. I grab my nightgown and TB’s keys to the pickup and head for the bathroom. I change for the night and brush my teeth, then dig in the bathroom cabinet until I find the appropriate item. I pull out a roll of toilet paper and place TB’s keys inside the cardboard tube, then replace the roll in the back of the cabinet and cover it with a box of Kleenex.
I climb into bed and turn off the light, slip an arm about my husband and place my face upon his back. I inhale the delicious smell of him, a mixture of musky soap and something sweet that’s all TB. As I fall into Lala Land I wonder if that special smell comes heaven sent.
Just before I fall asleep, I feel his hand on mine.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Fifteen
I wake to find two faces staring at me, one looking down standing by the side of the bed, and the other on my chest. I bolt to a sitting position which causes Stinky to dig in with his claws.
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to get up,” TB says, and I realize he’s fully dressed.
I grab my cat that’s about to puncture holes in my chest, hold him close, and pull my feet over the side of the bed. I glance at the clock and realize I have fifteen minutes to get dressed and downstairs for my talk with the Summerlands.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
TB’s pacing the room, looking under chairs, behind pillows. “I’ve been too busy trying to find my keys.”
I say nothing, drop Stinky on the bed, grab some clothes, and head to the bathroom. I can still hear TB tearing up the room while I dress, wash up, and brush my teeth. Before I join him, I reach into the bathroom cabinet and retrieve his keys within the toilet paper roll and slip them inside my jeans pocket. I head into the bedroom like nothing’s happened.
“Ready?”
TB shakes his head looking around the room. “I have to find my keys.”
I grab his sleeve. “Let’s go get breakfast. I’ll help you find them when we return.”
We’re a few minutes early but the nice lady who served us last night is busy in the kitchen; I hear her moving pots and pans. I stick my head inside and find Menasha’s rugged kitchen with the wood-burning stove and pie cabinet now looking like something from Southern Living. There are stainless steel appliances, a commercial stove, a fridge that could hold a cow, and gorgeous granite countertops.
“Wow, nice digs.”
The nice lady looks up and smiles. “Isn’t it? Wish I had this spread at home.”
Not me, I think. My idea of cooking is watching someone else do it.
“By any chance is there coffee available somewhere?”
The catering lady brightens with a huge smile and I’ll bet she’s this cheerful all the time. “Yes, ma’am. It’s just about brewed. I’ll bring it out.”
“Thank you. We’re in the back room, thought we’d get together a little before breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I cringe. I’m only thirty so hearing people call me ma’am, even though it’s the polite thing to do down south, makes me feel old. So, I decide to nip this one in the bud. “I’m Vi,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Carol,” she answers, then hands me a card that says, “The Long Hot Simmer, catering by Carol Zimmerman.”
“Cute.”
That big smile returns. “Thanks.”
After Carol assures me caffeine relief is on the way, I head to the back room and find the Summerlands talking to TB about their early morning walk. Apparently, they ran into each other by the pond, TB walking Stinky for his morning constitution.
“Your cat is something else,” Melissa says to me.
“That’s one way to call it.”
We sit around one of the room’s tables and make ourselves comfortable, Melissa pulling off a jacket.
“It’s actually warm out there,” she says. “I don’t know what happened but it’s warmed up and the wind’s blowing like crazy.”
“Probably a front coming through,” I explain. “It sucks up warm air from the Gulf and then rains. Once the front rolls in it’ll drop several degrees in minutes.”
“Weird,” Jacob says.
I’m about to repeat that stupid saying we love to tell visitors — “If you don’t like the weather in the Deep South, wait five minutes” — but it’s so trite, I don’t. I’m ready to start discussing Jacob’s ancestors. Instead, TB beats me to it.
“I did some research.” He opens his laptop. “There was a Rebecca Hamilton and her son, Jacob, reported as runaway slaves by Wendell Meyers of Briarwood Plantation in 1860. I found it in the courthouse records.”
Jacob looks at TB’s laptop and his eyes light up. “That’s fantastic.”
“If you give me your email, I’ll send y’all this document.”
“That’ll be amazing,” Melissa says, equally excited.
So, that’s what my husband was doing last night. I’m so impressed I remain quiet and watch him in action.
“I did find some bad news, however.” TB turns the laptop to Jacob and I see Jacob’s excitement fall.
“Oh no.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“What?” I ask.
Jacob turns the laptop toward Melissa and she sighs and frowns.
“What?” I repeat.
“Rebecca’s son died of fever on the Trace,” TB says to me quietly. “I found an old newspaper story about it. They got sick at Buzzard Roost Spring near the Tennessee border. She and the man she was traveling with survived, but the son did not. He stumbled into the backyard to get to the creek, must have gotten dizzy because he fell in and drowned.”
Oh my God. That child I spotted at Buzzard Roost. That was Jacob. Explains why I also channeled him here at Richfield.
“But Rebecca lived,” I say to Jacob, the one in front of me. “And she was your ancestor?”
He nods, but that sadness remains. I feel it, too. Poor Becca, travels out of slavery and rape to freedom only to lose her son in the process.
“She ended up marrying my great-great grandfather in Kentucky and they owned their own farm, had nine children,” Jacob says. “She lived a very good life.”
He’s holding something back, and I think I know what it is.
“Your ancestor was conceived here,
” I quietly say, and everyone looks at me startled.
Suddenly, Carol and her sunshine enters the room. “Coffee!” she announces cheerfully.
We all try to regroup emotionally and allow her access to the table. She places a huge platter in front of us.
“There’s real cream, sugar, that horrible artificial stuff.” She chuckles at the last part. “And some tea bags and a pot of hot water if anyone wants tea.”
“Wow, thank you so much,” TB says.
The two exchange enthusiastic smiles and I wonder if Carol’s an oblivious angel, too. It warms my heart watching this pair until TB catches me staring and his smile disappears. Now, my heart plummets. He still thinks I traipsed off into the night with Devil in a Blue Suit. Which, of course, I did.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Carol says and hurries off to the kitchen where something smelling unbelievably good is cooking.
“Thank you,” we all say to her wake.
When the kitchen door swings back, Jacob crosses his arms and sends me a stern look. He wants to know why I think he’s descended from someone else, pre-Kentucky. I decide honesty is best.
“I’m a medium.”
This isn’t what they’re expecting. Even TB is surprised.
“I know it sounds crazy but I can sometimes talk to those who have passed on.”
Melissa does the sign of the cross, which could go either way. Sometimes Catholics are open to souls walking the earth and sometimes they see it as the work of the devil. Speaking of, I wonder where Dwayne is this fine morning. I look around to make sure he’s not listening in.
“And who are you speaking to?” Jacob studies me hard. He’s not sure he believes me but I sense he’s open to the idea.
I need coffee first. I pour myself a cup and add a dollop of cream, take a sip and sigh. “I have seen the mistress of this house and her kitchen slave helping Rebecca and Jacob escape by way of a man named Bertrand Willis.”
“Yes, we know about that,” Melissa says enthusiastically. “They have been friends of the family for generations.”
I smile at this news but inwardly I’m grimacing, wondering how to breach this painful subject.
“Go on,” Jacob says.
“Rebecca was with child when she left. I believe it was Wendell Meyers’ and Cora was helping her escape because Wendell had threatened to sell them off.”
No one says anything for several moments, until Jacob nods.
“We knew there was someone else,” Melissa says. “His great grandmother’s birthdate was before her parents’ marriage although we didn’t find that out until we started doing genealogy research; they always lied about her age. Some people in the family said she was a product of Rebecca’s first husband but when we found his death certificate, that didn’t jibe.”
“There’s also that white glow about me,” Jacob says with a sad smile. “My line was always a bit paler than the rest.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Also explains how my great grandmother’s name was Cora.”
Cora had a namesake? This warms my heart. “Cora would have been so pleased. She was an avid abolitionist.”
“What happened to her?” Melissa asks.
I look at TB but he shakes his head. Obviously, his research pulled up nothing on the house mistress.
“She died in a mental institution.”
We all turn at the sound of Ricky’s voice. He’s standing at the threshold of the back room, holding a vase full of flowers.
“If y’all are ready, we’re meeting in the dining room for breakfast.”
And with those few words, he leaves.
Melissa and Jacob rise, thank TB for his research, me for my whatever you want to call it; that’s how Melissa describes my channeling. The couple head to breakfast and TB closes his laptop.
“Wow, that was great what you found.”
He gives me a hesitant smile, like he’s not sure he’s allowed such compliments.
“TB?”
He places the laptop under his arm. “I’m going to find us a seat.”
I’m about to follow when I remember something Jacob said as he traveled through the darkness in that wagon so many years ago. Before he lost his life halfway up the Trace.
I head to the kitchen and hope that Carol is busy serving the others breakfast in the dining room. She’s nowhere to be found so I start digging through drawers. I find some cloves and bay leaves, search through jars of herbs and spot some fennel. Nothing that can do damage but protection might be more what I need.
“Can I help you?”
I jump and turn, smiling nervously. Carol heads to my side, still sporting enthusiasm but her forehead creases as she gets closer and sees what I’m doing.
“I was looking for herbs,” I say.
She glances down at my collection, then studies me hard. “You have some bad mojo following you around?”
She says it half-jokingly as if she’s not sure that’s what I’m doing. I straighten. “Yes. How did you know?”
She shrugs and looks at the three herbs I have placed on the counter. “Don’t see you putting those on your eggs.”
“But…?”
She waves her hand and reaches into her pocket, pulls out a weird looking thing resembling a nut.
“St. John the Conqueror root,” I say, marveling at the item before me. I’ve been having a hard time finding this legendary root because my favorite botanical shop in New Orleans flooded during Katrina and has yet to reopen.
“Named for an African prince,” Carol tells me proudly. “Was sold into slavery but he routinely tricked his master and made it back to Africa one day.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” I tell Carol, “always wondered if the legend helped those in bondage keep faith or if there indeed was an African prince named John. I usually keep one in my protection gris gris bag, although I didn’t bring one with me on this trip.”
She places the root in my hand and closes my fingers around it. “Take it. I have more at home.”
I’m speechless at her generosity, especially since she barely knows me. And yet, I feel like we’re soul sisters.
“I love the stories, don’t care if they’re true or not,” Carol continues, placing biscuits on to a tray. “My favorite is John falling in love with the devil’s daughter, Lilith, but the devil told him he had to plow sixty acres in half a day before he could marry her. Lilith told John that her father would kill him regardless, but John finished those acres, stole the devil’s horse, took Lilith, and they escaped back to Africa.”
I smile, savoring the feel of this magical man in my hands. The fact that his wife had a similar name as my daughter isn’t lost on me, either. “Good story.”
Almost as good as Carol’s smile; it’s enough to brighten the world.
“Keep it,” she says. “John left his magical powers in this root because if he used them on his own, the devil would find him and Lilith. So, the root’s ours now to protect us.” She pats me on the arm. “And you.”
I have no idea what I’m up against with Dwayne, what evil he has intended for tonight or what Carmine hopes to conjure to counteract this event. But I place my root in my pocket and vow to Carol that I will keep it there.
“Now, hurry up and get a seat before the eggs get cold.”
I do as I’m told, enter the dining room, and sit next to TB, who chose two chairs as far away from Dwayne as possible. Good thing, too, for Dwayne’s sending me the evil eye big time. I reach into my pocket and hold my root tight, but to my surprise TB wraps a protective arm about my shoulders and gives Dwayne a defiant look. It feels good, although I know I still have road to travel to convince my husband I didn’t do what he suspects I did.
“Where’s Carmine?” Winnie asks, and I realize my buddy’s not present.
“On the back porch on his phone,” Pepper mumbles, her head bent over her eggs.
Someone woke up on the wrong side. But it’s been a long trip with plenty of dr
ama for all of us so we mostly eat breakfast in silence. All except the Summerlands, who talk excitedly to Ricky about what TB has found and how Jacob connects to this place. I notice Dwayne listening closely, asking questions here and there. Jacob responds and I long to kick him under the table but he has no idea of Dwayne’s intentions, whatever they may be.
Ricky, on the other hand, is blanching. He has a few evil glances for me, as well.
Shelby arrives all bubbly and gives us fifteen minutes to pack up and meet the van out front. Half of us groan and several of us — you know I’m one of them — gulp down our coffees and head to the rooms. When no one’s looking, I slip two of those fabulous biscuits into my pocket and nab a slice of bacon for Stinky and a to-go coffee for me.
“How are we getting the cat out of here?” I whisper to TB on the way up the stairs.
“How are we driving home is the big question?”
I pull the keys out of my pocket and hand them to TB.
“Where did you find them?”
I think to come clean, express my love and appreciation, and beg him to stay but I’m surrounded by cynical journalists. I shrug instead. “They were right on the bed.”
When we reach the landing, I spot Kelly struggling to exit the tiny elevator. Her crutch catches the elevator threshold and she’s about to lunge head-first into the nearby wall and a table full of miniature ceramic dogs when TB bounds forth and catches her within inches of disaster. Kelly gushes her thanks, Winnie expounds on TB’s quickness to action, and I’m downright astonished. I saw the accident about to happen but couldn’t have saved her in time. TB wasn’t even looking in that direction.
Carmine passes me on the staircase and I hear Winnie explaining to him how my husband saved the day. Carmine catches my eye and smiles, that lone eyebrow raised to the heavens.
“I get it,” I say under my breath.
It takes us several minutes to return to our room for everyone’s enthusing TB’s actions and Kelly’s pouring forth gratitude. As usual, when TB’s in a situation like this, he appears uncomfortable, constantly telling everyone that it was nothing, that anyone would have done the same. I stand on the periphery sipping my coffee, taking it all in, wondering how the hell I never saw this before.
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