House of Ashes

by Loretta Marion

  “Suppose you’ll find the right girl while you’re away, then?”

  “No sir. I reckon I’ve already found her.”

  Mr. Patrick narrowed his eyes. “You best not be talking of my Fiona. She’s too young for you. Too young for anyone.”

  “But she won’t be when I get back now, will she?” Ambrose had been emboldened by his new status of enlisted naval man. “She’ll be nineteen and of a consenting age.”

  “That may well be, if she’d settle for the likes of you. But for now, you keep your distance, Ambrose Mitchell.”

  * * *

  Ambrose had been waiting for more than an hour and was fast losing hope of seeing his lovely Fiona. He stubbed out his last cigarette and rose to his feet. He’d be leaving in two days and finding another opportunity to say goodbye would not come easily. He felt the sway of the pier and knew at once Lady Luck was with him.

  “Fi?” he called out softly.

  “Yes, Brosie, it’s me.” She fell into his arms and began to cry.

  “Hey, my darlin’ Fi.” He took her chin and turned it toward the moon. “What’s all this about?”

  “Pop said you’re leaving. Is it true?” She tilted her tear-stained face upward.

  Why was it that the romantic notions of women prevented them from seeing the practical side of a man’s vision?

  “If I don’t go now, I’ll always be wondering what’s out there. It would burn a hole in my soul. Besides, your pop will never let me see you until you’re of age.”

  “But I can’t bear three years without you.” She buried her face in his shoulder.

  “We will write to each other. Make our future plans through our letters. Time will pass quickly. And when I return, we’ll be married.” He fished from his pocket a small box and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” Fiona’s innocent but tear-filled eyes widened as she gently lifted the top to display a ring set with a green gem.

  “It’s a promise ring. I mean to make you my wife when I come back to Whale Rock. That is, if you’ll wait for me.”

  He removed the ring from the box. “I chose an emerald to match my eyes. When you look at this ring, I’ll know you’re thinking of me.”

  “It’s beautiful. But even if it were just a chip of sea glass, I’d still find it beautiful because it’s from you.”

  “So do you promise to wait for me the three years I’ll be gone?”

  “I’d wait for you forever.”

  He leaned in for a kiss, but the sound of the harbormaster’s approaching steps interrupted his intentions.

  “We gotta hide,” Fiona whispered.

  “The Celeste.” Ambrose hopped into his father’s catboat, lifting Fiona in after him. They pulled the tarp over their heads until the coast was clear. When they freed themselves from the covering, the moon cast its light on Ambrose’s arm.

  “Whatever is this?” Fi gently caressed the image.

  “I had it done in Boston. I thought it would make me look like a real sailor.”

  “But what is it?”

  “This fella here, rising from the flames? He’s called Vulcan.”

  “A funny name.”

  He pointed to his other arm. “They’re both mythical figures.”

  “You got two?” Fiona exclaimed. “Did it hurt?”

  “Nah. But this one’s my favorite: Neptune, the water god. He’s half man, half ocean wave. They’re symbolic.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re the two vast powers that could ruin a man. We should always respect and even fear them.” He’d learned that from his father. Both forces of nature had left their mark on the family. His grandfather’s fleet of cargo boats had been wiped out by an arsonist back in England, a tragic act of revenge. The man who lit the match gave new meaning to the phrase “carrying a torch,” as Robert Toomey had once done for Ambrose’s mother. And a few years ago, his two older brothers had been enjoying a carefree day of sea fishing when a sudden turn of weather ended in tragedy. The storm had been violent, sweeping the splintered remains of their small boat ashore along with the broken bodies of Edwin and Jerome. His parents were heartbroken, and the accident left Ambrose an only child. It had taken all his courage to ask his father for permission to join the Navy, knowing how hard it would be for Percy to run the business on his own. And the toll the news took on his mother had been almost unbearable.

  Fiona continued to caress Ambrose’s arms.

  “You’d best be getting back, Fi.” He nuzzled her neck.

  * * *

  It was nearly dawn when Fiona finally untangled herself from Ambrose’s arms and climbed out of the Femme Celeste. She’d wanted to make a lasting impression to ensure her love would keep his promise and return to her.

  Two days later, she joined the many other well-wishing town folk who’d gathered at the center of Whale Rock to see Ambrose Mitchell off to serve his country. From the sidelines, she blew a surreptitious kiss to her beloved, who made a secret gesture of catching it and bringing it to his heart. In her pocket, she fingered the letter he’d slipped to her earlier, certain his intentions were sincere. But then Fiona caught sight of Celeste Mitchell’s tormented expression as she released Ambrose from a tender embrace, and she’d shivered as if the cold finger of death had tapped her on the shoulder.

  ~

  Present day

  While Skunk prepped the workspace for his final artistic creation of the night, I considered how the powerful forces of water and fire had perpetuated the ruination of so many in the Mitchell family. The tragic loss of all three of Percy and Celeste’s sons to the sea and then, of course, their own ultimate demise by fire. And metaphorically, the cancer that coursed like a wildfire through my mother’s body, the fluid buildup from pneumonia that virtually drowned my father, Ethan setting my trust fund to flames, and my affair with Billy that was born at sea. And most recently, the fire at The Bluffs that might have taken my life had I not been rescued by Ashley and Vince. It was time to break the spell.

  Skunk was rubbing his hands together. “So what are you going with?”

  He nodded approvingly when I handed him the image.

  “It’s symbolic,” I told him, though he didn’t ask what it symbolized, and probably didn’t care.

  What he did ask was, “Where?”

  I gulped and pointed.

  “Brave girl,” was all he said as he led me to the table.

  Was I brave? Or was it simply a matter of what I needed to do? Either way, I was ready to rise from the flames, be reborn, start anew. And who knew? Perhaps this bold act would defy the curse of Robert Toomey.

  * * *

  The next morning I did awake with one massive hangover, and Skunk’s forewarning of a second reverberating in my already throbbing head. I sought Advil and strong coffee before even considering a peek at the consequences of last night’s escapade. When I finally stepped before the full-length mirror, I slowly loosened the belt of my robe and braced myself as the satiny fabric slid off my shoulders to puddle onto the floor.

  I cast an appraising eye at the artistic creation, now a permanent addition to my body.

  “Hmm. I don’t hate it.” I gingerly touched the skin between my pelvic bones, surprised there was no pain. “In fact, I don’t mind it at all.”

  Hearing footfalls on the back stairway, I slipped on sweat pants and a T-shirt, grabbed my now empty coffee mug, and joined my accomplices in the kitchen.

  “Another close encounter with a Great White at Nauset Beach.” Vince waved the front page of the Cape Cod Times. “And to think, we were just at Liam’s the other night.”

  “And you didn’t bring me back an order of quahogs?” I feigned a pout. Liam’s was the best clam shack on the Cape, but I rarely braved the crowds.

  “We didn’t know you were such a clam fan.”

  “I was practically reared on them. But I hate to think of you two out there swimming with the sharks.”

  “Are you kidding? Ash won’t wade out
further than ankle-deep water.”

  “I don’t even like it when you’re out there body surfing.” Ashley’s face darkened.

  “But you don’t seem to mind sailing.” I refilled my coffee mug.

  “That’s different.” She changed the subject to ask, “You don’t have tattoo remorse, do you?”

  “What I have is a horrific headache. But this?” I patted my lower tummy. “I must admit, at first I was afraid to look. But believe it or not, I’m pleased with it.”

  “Whew!” Vince made the dramatic act of wiping his brow. “We’ve had friends who’ve awoken the morning after being inked and totally freaked out.”

  Ashley nodded. “We’re just glad you don’t hate us.”

  “Well, I now have more incentive not to gain weight. Wouldn’t want Mr. Phoenix to get all distorted and bloated looking.”

  This brought a chuckle from the young couple.

  “Well, you might decide to have a baby one day,” Vince said. “That would redefine the image for sure.”

  Ashley and I shared a meaningful look. I opened the cupboard to pull out the frying pan, knowing full well he was teetering on starvation. “Who’s hungry?”

  Vince put the paper aside and grinned.

  “That’s what I thought. How does scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and grits sound?”

  “Like breakfast heaven.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, reminding me of Skunk before he started my tattoo.

  “It’s late enough to call this brunch.” I checked the captain’s clock. Nearly eleven o’clock.

  “I know somebody else who’s probably starving,” Ashley reminded Vince.

  “Sorry, buddy.” He gave Whistler a rub before filling his bowl with a generous serving of kibble.

  “By the way, what was it you said last night about Whistler and how you arrived at his name?”

  “Did we say?” Ashley didn’t look up from her task of cracking eggs into a bowl. “I don’t remember talking about it.”

  “We did.” The subject had come up while I was being tended to by the tattoo artist. “But I’m fuzzy on the answer.”

  Vince frowned first, then laughed and said, “Oh yeah, that was one of the many subjects we discussed to distract you from your pain.”

  “It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would. Likely the anesthetizing effect of tequila.”

  “Don’t. Say. That. Word.” Vince placed his hands on his head. “No Wizards for a while.”

  “So, are you going to remind me?” I asked, adding grits into a pan of boiling water.

  He gave me a questioning look.

  “The story about Whistler’s name?” I prompted.

  “Oh, that.” He gave a casual wave. “It’s not much of a story, really.”

  Ashley handed me the bowl of whipped eggs, which I poured into a sizzling skillet while Vince drank down a large glass of orange juice and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “The place I got him from was called Whistler Farms. He was the last remaining puppy from the litter, and the breeders had already started calling him Whistler. I kind of liked the name, so I kept it.”

  I couldn’t summon to memory the story he told last night, but this version did not sound authentic. Mostly, it seemed unlike Vince to leave the naming of his pet to someone else.

  I must have looked unconvinced because he lifted his hands in apology. “I told you it wasn’t much of a story.”

  There was something else Ashley and I had been talking about, but it too would remain adrift in the after-haze of intoxication.

  “Do you remember agreeing to let us crate up all those paintings?” she said, interrupting my ruminations.

  “My mother’s?” They’d been pestering me to return the spellbinding works to the carriage house attic now that the upper floor had been completed.

  “Those”—then, tentatively—“and also your new ones?”

  I didn’t look at her but nodded my assent as the smell of smoke wafted to my nostrils.

  “Who’s manning the toaster?”

  Ashley said, “I will.”

  I turned to see that she hadn’t started toasting the bread yet. I looked about to see what else might be burning, but everything was cooking as it should be.

  What was the message this time? And more importantly, who was sending it?

  * * *

  It was a humid, windless day, so another sail wasn’t in the cards, even if our stomachs could have survived an outing on the Cat. Unable to face the crating of my paintings, I sent Vince and Ashley to the barn to do the deed on their own. While they did that, I set about hanging the newly discovered portraits of my great-grandparents. They came in to help me finish, and as we stood back to admire the images, a wonderfully sweet scent surrounded me. The relief was nearly dizzying.

  “Do you smell that?” I whispered. “That sweetness?”

  “Yeah,” Ashley said, tugging me toward what used to be the pantry in the days before my mother converted it to a closet. “Vince noticed it when we were searching for some old rags.”

  I breathed in the faint combined aromas of sugar and vanilla, but it wasn’t the distinct scorched scent that had shadowed me through The Bluffs since childhood. I had no desire to delve into the complicated subject of the spirits in the house, but it was time to admit the truth behind why I selected the phoenix tattoo.

  “Let’s take a walk down to the cliffs,” I suggested. And there I shared more about the fire dreams that had haunted me since childhood and how I believed they were somehow connected to the curse.

  “Maybe Robert Toomey’s spirit is haunting you.” Vince said this half-joking and half-seriously as he echoed my own fears these past weeks since Zoe mentioned the burning flesh smell that sent her fleeing across the continent.

  “Have you ever thought of having the house spiritually cleansed?”

  I knew what Ashley meant. There were rituals of burning sage or sprinkling holy water throughout the house. But I would never do anything that might chase Percy and Celeste from their beloved home.

  “I don’t believe it’s necessary.”

  “What about that book and the claims about the curse?” Vince asked.

  “So much of what Edgar wrote is based on inference and speculation.” It was Ashley who answered, having read it more recently than I.

  “If enough people believe in something, it becomes their truth,” I said.

  “Did Fiona believe in the curse?” Ashley asked.

  I nodded. “She blamed it for losing the love of her life, and she was a hawk when it came to watching over my father.” I took in a deep breath. “And there were all my mother’s many miscarriages.”

  “Seven lost babies.” This was barely a whisper from Ashley.

  “My grandmother never spoke of the curse until the end of her life. In a way, I think she felt that talking about it gave it more power. But she also wanted me to know that she believed the curse could be defied. Granny Fi’s dying words were ‘You may be a Mitchell, Cassandra, but don’t you forget about the Patrick blood also coursing through your veins. And it’s Patrick blood that kept your father with us for many years.’ ”

  “I agree with Fiona,” Vince declared.

  “Well, something feels different today. I have this weird sense of rebirth.”

  “Maybe returning the happier portraits of Percy and Celeste to their rightful place has something to do with it,” suggested Vince.

  “Or … maybe your tattoo has exorcised the spirit of Robert Toomey?” Ashley leaned in, excited by the possibility.

  “Could be. It’s why I chose the phoenix.” I rubbed my tummy again. That’s exactly what it felt like. An exorcism, whether real or simply imagined. I felt lighter, freer, and—best of all—like Percy and Celeste had returned to me. And for that, I had Vince and Ashley to thank.

  I wasn’t sure where they spent the rest of the day, but I cocooned myself in my favorite spot in the house: the sleeping porch off the master bedroo
m, which overlooked the cliffs to the bay. It offered a stunning view but was also the best place to try to catch a breeze. I fought to stay awake to finish the mystery I was reading, but kept nodding off. I roused myself around six o’clock, with still no sign of my two roomies or Whistler. After heating up a can of soup, I took myself to bed early, too tired to wait around and see if they’d show up.

  It was as I was brushing my teeth that I noticed Fiona’s emerald ring was gone from my finger.

  12

  Late August ~ one week before the disappearance

  I’d been searching endlessly for Granny Fi’s emerald ring, my most beloved possession aside from Battersea Bluffs. And now that Percy and Celeste were back, they weren’t letting me be. A constant cloud of burning sugar followed me from room to room, and there was a persistent clattering in the bathroom pipes, another of their warning signals that had remained dormant for some time.

  “What are you looking for?” Ashley had found me tearing frantically through kitchen drawers the first morning after I realized the ring was missing.

  “I’ve lost Fiona’s ring.” I held out my naked hand as proof.

  “I’ll bet you just misplaced it.” She offered to help look, and we thoroughly sifted through the contents of the occupied areas of the house but came up empty.

  “I’m sure it will turn up.” She tried to encourage me.

  “I hope you’re right. I just can’t imagine what happened to it.”

  “You have lost weight. Maybe it slipped off?”

  Later, Vince said, “I haven’t even noticed you wearing it lately.”

  I was certain he was mistaken, for rarely if ever did I take it off.

  “Have you checked the car?” he asked.

  “The car, the truck, the studio. I’ve looked everywhere twice and maybe three times.”

  “Maybe you lost it on the sail,” he’d suggested after giving the Mazda and the truck another once-over for me.

  “I think I had it on at Wizards.” Though how could I be certain after two shots of tequila and who knew how many beers?

  “I’ll bet it shows up where you least expect it.”