Compulsion

by Martina Boone

  Barrie took her seat, but the pull of something lost drew her attention beyond the columns to where the mansion had stood. Something was buried there; Cassie was right. Something big. The pressure made Barrie’s head ache even worse. At the rate she was going, she’d need to buy stock in whatever company manufactured Tylenol.

  “It’s nice that Cassie is so modest about taking credit.” Eight leaned closer and tapped the thin program in Barrie’s hand.

  Barrie scanned the text. Written by C. Colesworth based on a novel by Margaret Mitchell, Produced by C. Colesworth, Directed by C. Colesworth, Starring Cassandra Colesworth and the Santisto Players.

  “Who are the Santisto Players?” she asked, shrugging off Eight’s sarcasm.

  “The high school drama club.” Eight stretched his legs alongside hers, close but not quite touching. “The principal won’t let them say so because Cassie stole the story to write the play. He doesn’t want the school to get in trouble.”

  “So all these kids are Cassie’s friends?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Barrie turned to look around. The seven rows of seats were filling up, and again, she and Eight seemed to be the main attraction. In the area to the right of the stage marked Actors Only, girls in hoopskirts and boys in bow ties and formal coats took turns peering at her from the gap between the curtains. People in the audience cast her curious glances. A curl of annoyance tightened in her chest, but she pushed it down, told herself she was fine. She just wished the play would hurry up and start.

  “It’s only a few more minutes,” Eight said. “Are you hungry yet? I could go get our food.” He pointed at someone carrying a small wicker picnic basket from the concessions stand.

  Food was the last thing Barrie wanted. Or the second to last thing, because having Eight leave her alone with all these people staring at her would be worse. On the flip side, eating would give her something to do with her hands.

  Before she could make up her mind, Eight turned to smile at a dark-haired girl in a pale pink costume who was coming down the aisle. “Hey, Sydney.” His greeting was friendlier than he had ever been with Cassie. “You here to meet your cousin?”

  “I was hoping to,” Sydney said. Her smile was tentative, and she lifted both hands to call attention to the picnic basket and the steaming bowl she carried. “I brought y’all some food.”

  Barrie set the program on the seat beside her and rose, only to stand there with no idea what to do. Cassie had made this part of their introduction easy, sweeping her into a hug and eliminating all the awkwardness. Sydney, clearly, wasn’t as outgoing.

  “I’m so glad you came over. Is it okay if I give you a hug?” Barrie asked. “It’s amazing to have cousins.”

  “Sydney?” Cassie’s head turtled out from behind the curtain. “What are you doing? Come back over here.”

  Sydney gave Barrie a bobbing nod. “Sorry! I’ve got to go.” She pushed the food at Eight and turned to hurry away. After a couple of steps, though, she ran back and threw her arms around Barrie. “I’m so glad to meet you.” Barrie barely had time to return the squeeze before Sydney rushed away, calling over her shoulder, “There are sandwiches, drinks, and cookies in the baskets, plus cocktail sauce, napkins, and utensils.”

  Eight and Barrie slipped back into their seats, and he handed her the steaming bowl.

  “What is it?” Barrie asked.

  “Frogmore Stew. Otherwise known as low-country boil. Try it.”

  “There aren’t any actual frogs in it, are there?” Barrie drew the line at eating frogs. Or snakes. Or insects, for that matter. She could make a list. But as Eight laughed and shook his head, she had to admit the dish was delicious to look at: pink shrimp, white clams, red-skinned potatoes quartered to show the creamy middles, bright hunks of yellow corn on the cob, and some kind of sausage. It could have been a still-life painting of Bounty from a Cornucopia, but it had no relationship to stew. There wasn’t a real sauce, for one thing, and how was she supposed to eat it gracefully?

  “Don’t bother with the knife and fork. That’s what napkins are for.” Eight retrieved a stack from one of the baskets and spread them several layers thick on the ground for the husks and shells. Then he squirted cocktail sauce into one section of the bowl.

  Barrie nibbled a potato wedge. The flavors bloomed on her tongue, and she let her eyes flutter closed as she concentrated: “Lemon, salt, celery seed, onion, pepper, cloves, bay leaves—”

  Eight bent closer, his breath warm on her cheek. “What are you saying?”

  Her eyes flew open. “Nothing.” She hadn’t even realized she was speaking aloud. “I was separating flavors into ingredients,” she admitted. “It’s not a game, exactly, more an experiment my . . . godfather and I used to do at home.” The thought of Mark left her with a pang of loneliness.

  Eight’s lips twitched into a grin. “You cook?”

  “Yes.” Barrie felt warm and breathless from the way he looked at her.

  A slow drumroll made them startle apart. Two football-player types dressed in Confederate gray marched onto the stage. Pulling on ropes hidden behind the broken columns, they raised a sheet of canvas to create a backdrop and turned to stand at attention. Four more boys carried in a framed front door, a small table, and a pair of swinging benches. They all saluted the audience and walked off in step with one another. The stage and columns went dark, leaving only the sunset to illuminate the grounds.

  The beat of the drums faded, and the first mournful notes of “Dixie” ghosted through the trees. Behind the audience a light snapped on, projecting the porch of a plantation house onto the canvas backdrop. The front door in the image aligned perfectly with the prop onstage, which opened on a creaky note to admit Cassie and two boys, all of them in aristocratic costumes. They were followed by a girl dressed as a slave, who balanced glasses and a pitcher of lemonade on a tray.

  “There’ll be war soon.” One of the boys posed at the edge of the stage with a hand in his pocket. “It’s comin’ here, too, I reckon.”

  “War.” Cassie settled herself on a bench and spread out her skirts. “Ah’m sick to death of everyone talkin’ ’bout the war.” She gave both boys a flirtatious glance. “Tell me somethin’ ah don’t already know.”

  “All right.” The other boy put a foot on the bench beside Cassie and hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “I bet you didn’t know Ashley Wilkes is announcin’ his engagement to Melanie tomorrow at the Twelve Oaks ball.”

  Cassie’s face lost color. Then she raised her chin, giving the impression of looking down her nose at the boy even though she was sitting and he was standing up.

  “You’re lyin’.” Her voice hit the perfect tone of careful rage. “You’re lyin’, and ah don’t appreciate the jest. Ah want you to go.” She pointed an imperious finger. “Leave. Go on. Go home, Brent Tarleton, and take your brother with you.”

  The boys glanced at each other, shrugged, and went down the steps at the edge of the stage. Cassie watched them leave as if she were about to call them back. Barrie felt the warring rage and longing in her cousin as if it were her own. She held her breath as Cassie waited, hoping, until the boys were out of sight. Cassie picked up the lemonade from the tray and hurled it after them. The pitcher arced perfectly and crashed with the sound of breaking glass.

  Eight leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his warmth and scent grounding Barrie in the present while the play tried to sweep her into the past. Neither of them moved again until the audience gasped when Rhett Butler came on stage, played by a light-skinned African-American boy.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant,” Barrie whispered. Everyone around her whispered too, but then the magic of the play took hold again.

  Cassie was astonishingly good. Her every word deepened the magic that held the audience and didn’t let go until the final backdrop faded from the projection screen.

  “I don’t know if that was nerve or genius,” Eight said into Barrie’s ear while the cast
took their bows and curtsies and the audience rose to their feet.

  “Both.” Still caught up in the play, she turned toward him.

  He was unexpectedly close. His eyes locked on hers, and the returning click shuddered through her to settle in her chest. Eight breathed faster as if the same energy that pulled her toward him was pulling him to her. But the tap of high-heeled shoes hurrying across the stage reminded her where they were. She turned and found Cassie watching her—watching the two of them—with a fixed, unnerving scrutiny that wasn’t the least bit friendly.

  The impression was gone in an instant. Cassie’s smile seemed genuine enough as she ran down the steps, holding up the hoopskirt of her beautiful red gown, her curled hair bouncing and her face still flushed with praise. In that moment, as much as during any part of the play, she was Scarlett running down the steps of Tara.

  She swooped in and took Barrie’s hands. “So? Did you love it? Tell me you loved it!”

  “Of course I loved it. Who wouldn’t?”

  Cassie’s laugh was delighted, deep, and breathy. She turned to Eight, her mouth open to speak, but then she stiffened and took a half step backward, her hand flying to her throat.

  Wyatt emerged from behind the concessions stand. Barrie smiled wider than probably necessary. “Hello, Uncle Wyatt.”

  “What did you think of our girl up there? She’s something, isn’t she?” Wyatt bared his teeth at Barrie. Eight, he ignored so completely that it could only have been on purpose.

  “They were both terrific.” Barrie nodded at Sydney, who had materialized behind her older sister. The younger girl was pale, less vivid than Cassie, like a print from an engraving plate used once too often. Sydney’s hair wasn’t as dark; her skin wasn’t as tanned; her eyes were a more watered-down shade of blue.

  Ignoring his younger daughter, Wyatt dropped a hand on Barrie’s shoulder. He stank of cigarettes and alcohol. “I ’spect your aunt wants you home soon. Cassie, Sydney, you go get changed. You have cleaning up to do.”

  “I invited Barrie to stay a bit,” Cassie said.

  Wyatt’s frown pinned his daughter until she squirmed. “Now’s not good,” he said. “You’ve got work.”

  “But I was going to show Barrie around. I can clean up later—” Cassie broke off and seemed to shrink as Wyatt’s expression deepened into a scowl.

  “I’m happy to come back another time,” Barrie interjected before Cassie could argue any more. Getting Wyatt upset wouldn’t do any of them any good. The whole point of coming was to find the treasure and end the feud. Why didn’t Cassie explain that to her father?

  “Come on, Eight. Let’s head home.” Barrie caught Eight’s arm to pull him away.

  “Don’t go yet,” Cassie said. “You may as well look around since you’re already here.”

  Wyatt’s expression grew darker still. “Not now, I said.”

  Eight had been watching the exchange with apparent fascination. He shifted closer to Barrie but made no move to leave. “Cassie, didn’t you tell your daddy about asking Barrie to help you find whatever y’all lost in the war? You’re probably all excited about getting it back.”

  “Of course.” Cassie darted a look at Wyatt and licked her lips. Then she wound her arm through the crook of Barrie’s elbow, pulling her to the left of the stage. “I thought we could start where the tunnel collapsed. I’ll bet it won’t take any time at all.”

  The lights had come up again as the audience had begun to depart, but on the far side of the stage, the moon stole all the color from the landscape. Aside from the columns, marble stairs and three half-tumbled chimneys were the bulk of what remained of the mansion. Where walls had once stood, grass had grown over remnants of broken brick, making it treacherous to walk.

  Cassie barely seemed to notice. She steered Barrie away from the source of the loss toward a fenced hole in the ground at the side of the ruined foundation. “This fell in four years ago,” she said. “We didn’t even know it was here. Or at least, we didn’t know where it was.”

  “What is it?” Barrie asked. Grass and weeds had done their best to colonize the sides of the hole that went down some fifteen feet, but here and there brick and mortar showed through, suggesting a structure underneath.

  “It used to be an escape tunnel to the river. All three of the founding families’ houses had them. It’s a big deal, apparently. Not something that you find on most plantations. We had archaeologists over here practically wetting their pants, begging Daddy to let them excavate.”

  “Why not let them?” Barrie asked. “Wouldn’t that have solved your problem?” She stole a glance back at Wyatt, who had followed them. He looked sulkier and somehow larger, as if his anger were making him swell.

  Cassie followed Barrie’s gaze, and her eyes held her father’s. Surprisingly, he was the one who looked away. Even then, Cassie watched him as she answered: “The tunnel cuts underneath the columns. If they fall over, we don’t have much left to draw the tourists.”

  It seemed to Barrie there was plenty to see at Colesworth Place apart from what remained of the mansion. Eight had mentioned that Wyatt was restoring the plantation. Elaborate signs in front of several structures near the main house foundation marked the kitchen, smokehouse, and stables. Near the parking lot and the smaller, modern house, a chapel stood intact beside a cemetery enclosed by wrought-iron fencing. Closer to the river, a row of brick slave cabins near the woods looked like they were in perfect condition, along with a larger cabin that might have been an overseer’s house.

  A second tug of loss came from that direction, lighter and less important than the brooding ache that called to Barrie from beyond the columns. She rubbed her temples and took a few steps toward it.

  Wyatt cut her off. “Where are you going? This is no time for bungling around. The moonlight may seem bright, but it’s easy to lose your footing and hurt yourself.”

  “Daddy, just let her do her—”

  “You and I are going to discuss this later, Cassie. But now, she needs to leave.”

  Barrie tried not to look at Eight. “I’m sorry, Uncle Wyatt. I don’t know what I did—”

  He whipped his attention back to her. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” The tone of his voice had lost any pretense at civility. “You’re as nosy as your mother, and just as sure everyone is going to welcome you wherever you show up. Entitled bitches, the both of you. But this here isn’t Watson property. It’s mine, and I decide who gets to stay. You want to be friends with my girls? I’ll tell you when you can be friends. Just as soon as you have them over to visit at Watson’s Landing. As soon as you stop lying about where you’ve been all these years. Your mother killed my brother! You think I want you over here sniffing around?”

  Stricken, Barrie glanced at Cassie, and then at Sydney, who had frozen like a rabbit behind her father and her sister, as if she hoped neither one would notice her if she didn’t move. Barrie wanted to retort that both her cousins could come over anytime, but she recognized she couldn’t. Pru would have a fit. And what did Wyatt mean about Lula killing his brother?

  “Come on, Bear. Let’s go.” Eight put his arm around Barrie’s shoulder and drew her toward him.

  “Daddy, stop. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Cassie stepped in front of Wyatt, facing Barrie, her palms together in a pleading gesture. “Please don’t leave mad, Barrie. He doesn’t mean—”

  “I damn well do mean it—”

  “No, you don’t! You know how our lives would change if we could find what Alcee Colesworth hid.”

  Wyatt stilled, the kind of stillness that had a weight all its own. “We can’t find what doesn’t exist,” he said.

  “But it does. I know it does!” Cassie turned back to him.

  His hand caught her across the cheek. “You don’t know that, and finding it damn sure wouldn’t change things.”

  “Hey!” Barrie shouted.

  Cassie gasped. Her hand flew to her face.

  Eight moved between them. �
��Are you insane?” he said to Wyatt. “Or just drunk?”

  Barrie willed Eight—wished him—to shut up. Wyatt’s face was red, and he was breathing hard. A vein bulged in his forehead from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. His hands fisted, anger pouring off him like sweat. “Get out of here, both of you. Go on now. Get!”

  Cassie mouthed, “Just go,” and Sydney nodded.

  It was impossible to think of leaving her cousins with Wyatt. But Barrie also couldn’t stay. She recognized Wyatt’s anger, and challenging her mother in this kind of a mood had always ended in disaster.

  She wrapped her arm around Eight’s waist. “Come on. Let’s go.” Standing on her toes, she whispered into his ear: “If we stay, we’ll only make it worse for Cassie.”

  Judging by the expression on Wyatt’s face, though, they couldn’t make it too much worse.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Turning her back on Wyatt’s anger made the hair rise on the back of Barrie’s neck. She shivered as she took the first step toward the parking lot.

  “Damn stupid crazy bastard,” Eight muttered, moving with her. His voice was soft.

  But not soft enough.

  “What did you call me, boy?” Wyatt shoved Barrie out of the way.

  Eight whipped around. “Get your hands off her.”

  Wyatt’s face was ugly: skin red, eyes slitted, lips peeled back from his teeth. Deliberately he snatched at Barrie’s arm and pulled her toward him. Eight grasped her other hand. Caught between the two, Barrie felt like a rope in a tug of war. Her heart revved, and her brain spun as she tried to think of a way to get them both calmed down.

  Eight let her go. He pushed up his sleeves.

  “What is wrong with all of you?” Barrie wrenched her arm out of Wyatt’s hold. “We were trying to leave. Come on, Eight. Let’s go.”

  Eight didn’t budge. Cassie and Sydney reached them and tried to pull Wyatt back, but he only shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.

  Every movement around Barrie, every detail, her every thought, grew crystalline. A fight between Eight and Wyatt wouldn’t be any kind of contest. Wyatt was too big. Eight would get hurt—badly hurt—and it would be her fault. But neither of them was going to back down.