biggest mistake with me, every day.
~A
The romantic in me hopes the recipient of this letter went to the sender, wrapped her in his arms, and laid the kiss of all kisses on her. That’s stupid, though, because A speaks of mistakes and betrayal. If A really does stand for Annabel, her story didn’t end in grand declarations and deep kisses. It ended in hopelessness and, very possibly, a flying leap from a sheer cliff.
Her next letter is brief:
Meet me. Let me apologize in person. I owe you that
much. I’ll be in the poppy meadow tonight.
Please—don’t tell anyone.
~A
My stomach twists; she’s toying with him, whoever he is.
I’m starting to feel like Lucy: unquenchably nosy. I flip to the final letter.
It was good to see you. I feel better now that we’ve talked,
but still … I miss you. Despite all the ways I screwed up,
despite my permanent tie to him, it’s always been you.
I’ve hurt you, and now I’m hurting him. He’s a good person—you know he is—and it’s not fair, the way I keep
thinking of you. I’m not sure I can stay with him,
trapped in a weak imitation of love. I have to make a
choice, but first I need to know if you can forgive me.
I need to know if we can reclaim what we lost.
~A
“Callie?”
I startle; A’s letters flutter to the floor.
Lucy. She’s just down the hall in the Theodore, but her voice sounds far away, stifled. Or maybe I’m just consumed by my reading. A’s appeals bring a wash of empathy that makes me dizzy. She was unhappy, remorseful, selfish. It sounds like she desperately wanted something she shouldn’t rightfully have.
I feel a weird and very unsettling sense of kinship.
What’s more—the words she used to describe the way she was feeling—hurt, regret, trapped—might, if intense enough, lead a nineteen-year-old to suicide. Suicide at Stewart House, where these letters have been stored for years and years.
I sit back on my heels, wondering: Am I so eager for something new to dwell on, something different to obsess over, I’m jamming pieces from various puzzles—mine, Annabel’s, A’s—into the same stubborn frame?
“How’s the progress in there?” Lucy calls.
“Good. Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Do me a favor and haul what we’re keeping up to the attic?”
I grumble an assent, stuff A’s letters into the pocket of my shorts, and drag a carton marked SILVER to the third floor.
Ten minutes later, I’ve stacked a tower of boxes against the attic’s north wall. I blot the sweat from my face and go about checking the window casings for relics of my sister. At the east-facing window, a hexagon of white light, I peer out onto the yard. Tucker’s progress in the garden is observable—it’s actually starting to resemble a garden—but he’s nowhere to be seen.
It’s a problem, the way I look forward to talking with him now. I shouldn’t add tinder to the spark of affection I feel, but I can’t get the kind way he spoke to my aunt at A Good Book out of my head. I keep thinking about the heat of his hand on my back.
Everything’s so muddled.
When I peek out the west-facing window and spot him standing at the cliff, I want to stand beside him.
Before I can convince myself that it’s a bad idea, I trot down two flights of stairs, avoiding Lucy on the second floor, and fill a glass with ice and lemonade.
I’m being friendly. It’s warm today, and he’s been working hard.
I leave through the back door and walk barefoot across the grass.
20
I’ve only been to the fringes of the yard, where grass gives way to scraggly weeds and gravel fades to dust, once before. That memory holds more angst than I have the energy to unpack, so, as usual, I push away the residual shock and hurt and anger and guilt. I grip the glass of lemonade and focus on Tucker, who’s still watching the waves.
“Hey,” I call when I near him.
He spins quickly around, like I’ve startled him.
“Break time?”
“Something like that, yeah.” His eyes travel once more to the ocean, dropping momentarily to the frothy water below. I chase his gaze as a wave races in, crashing against the craggy rocks, sending up a shower of mist.
This is where Annabel Tate spent her final moments.
I put myself in her place, absorbing the sun’s heat, letting the breeze tousle my hair. I contemplate suffering another day. I close my eyes … lean forward … consider how easy it’d be. How quick. And then I think of my parents, and Lucy, and how much they all care. I imagine their absolute devastation were something to happen to me.
“So,” Tucker says, sounding as cheerless as I suddenly feel. “What’s up?”
I open my eyes and take a step back, away from the cliff and an irrevocable fall.
I pass him the lemonade. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
“Yeah, I am, actually. Thanks.” His fingertips brush mine as he takes the glass, but I ignore the tingles that skitter up my arm because he isn’t himself. My mixed signals have probably thrown him. No, Tucker, hanging out together isn’t a good idea, but here, have some lemonade.
“Where’s your drink?” he asks.
It would’ve made sense to bring two glasses, but I can’t say I was thinking all that clearly before I went outside. “I wasn’t thirsty,” I tell him. “You just looked so hot out here.”
He quirks an eyebrow, his mouth coiling into a smirk. “Yeah?”
I frown and prop a hand on my hip. “Tucker—”
“Hey, you said it.”
I’m so out of practice, it’s hard to tell if he’s flirting or mocking or teasing as a friend might, but all at once, this trip to the cliff feels like a bad idea. I make a move for the house, tossing, “Anyway, enjoy,” over my shoulder.
“You know,” he calls after me. “Part of bringing a guy lemonade is hanging out with him while he drinks it. You’re not supposed to just go.”
I pause, turning to look back at him. “Who came up with that rule?”
“I did, obviously. What if I choke or something?” He moves forward a few paces, until the lawn is emerald green and thriving, then sits down facing the Victorian. “You gonna join me, or do you have something against grass, City Girl?”
I give in, sinking down beside him.
“My friends had a lot to say after meeting you,” he says after a swig of lemonade.
“God. Do I want to know?”
“Brace yourself. Brynn wants your life story. She needs to get you out for some girl time—her words, not mine.”
“You two are close?”
He shrugs. “I’ve known her and Drew most of my life. The three of us have been tight since Bell Cove Elementary.”
“Did you guys ever go out?”
As if his romantic history is my concern. My face is on fire.
“Drew and me? He’s not my really my type, Cal.”
I attempt chagrin, but it’s hard to keep a straight face.
“Oh! You mean Brynn and me? Nah.” His tone is casual, but my curiosity must flatter him, because he’s smiling. “Drew thinks you’re hot, by the way. He wants to know if you’re single. If you are, he wants me to pass his number to you.”
“Oh—uh…” The sun beats down on my forehead, my shoulders, the backs of my hands. I’m in a broiler, and I’m overcooked by anyone’s standard.
“It’s cool,” Tucker says. “I’ll make something up, if you want. Tell him you’re not interested in getting to know anyone.” His eyes go round and inquiring, jumping to the ring on my finger before landing on my face. “’Cause you’re not, right?”
I’m supposed to say something. No, would work splendidly, but the word sits idle on my tongue.
“Anyway,” he says, letting me off the hook. I can tell he’s disappointed. I am, to
o, because maybe—maybe—I am interested in getting to know someone. “What’ve you been up to today?”
“Organizing. Lucy’s got rooms full of junk that need sorting.”
“I bet there’s, like, a century of leftover shit in that house.”
“There is. The Stewarts were total pack rats. They saved all of their bank statements and every National Geographic ever published.”
“Those are the magazines with the naked people, yeah?”
“Yep. They’re so brittle the pages disintegrate when I turn them—not that I’m trying to look at naked people,” I add hastily.
He laughs. “Found anything cool?”
A’s letters are searing a hole in the pocket of my shorts. I kind of want to keep them to myself, but Tucker’s a lifelong Bell Cove resident. He might be able to say with certainty who A is. Or was. I pull out the stationery. Unfolding the letters, I hand them over. “I came across these. I’m not sure who A is, or when they were written, but they seem sort of scandalous.”
Tucker skims the elegant script of each letter, his brow furrowed. He checks out the back of each page, the pink papers fluttering as his hands, usually unfaltering, waver. When he’s done, he looks at me, his face clouded over. “So?”
“So … I found them in a journal with an S on its cover—S for Stewart, right? But who’s A? And who’s this other person who’s apparently keeping them apart?”
Tucker hands the letters back to me. “Who cares?”
“I do, kind of. Do you know anything about the Stewarts?”
“Not really.”
“Bell Cove’s the shit and all, so I thought maybe—”
“Callie, those letters must be crazy old,” he says, his expression wiped clean now. “Those people probably ditched Bell Cove the first chance they got.”
“But aren’t you curious about how it all played out?”
“Not even a little bit.”
I fold the pages and push them back into my pocket, embarrassed by what he must be thinking. I can hardly maintain my half of a conversation, but I’m fixated on a few letters penned by an unnamed stranger?
“Well,” I say. “That’s the highlight of what I’ve seen up in the Gabriel. Unless you’re into silverware and teacups and classic novels.”
He smiles, not so serious anymore. “What’re you gonna do with it all?”
“Toss the old magazines and paperwork. Move anything remotely valuable to the attic for Lucy to look over later.”
“Did you know she’s gonna let me paint the exterior of this place when I finish the yard?”
I look up at Stewart House in all its dilapidated glory. “I kind of like the chipped paint. Gives it character.”
“Yeah, but if it’s gonna open as a B&B, it’s gotta look its best.”
“I guess…” My attention drifts to the west-facing attic window. There’s a funny glare, the sun, probably, but it creates a shape in the hexagon frame, washed-out and still. I blink, trying to discern its details.
Tucker offers me his glass. “Thirsty yet?”
I take it, fixated on the attic window as I sip lemonade. The glare’s still there, and then it flashes, becoming a pale, featureless face. It ducks away in a glint of light.
I choke.
Coughing, sputtering, I lean forward, gaping at the window. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Tucker asks, thumping my back.
I point at the third floor. “That window. There was … something.”
He squints; the window’s dark. “Probably the sun.”
“No. It moved.” It’s possible I’ve lost it completely—I’m so certain about what I just saw, yet bursting with doubt, too. It’s one thing to indulge this contradictory nonsense privately—silently—but to invite Tucker in is a whole new level of foolish.
“Lucy, maybe?”
“Lucy doesn’t hang out in the attic.”
Tucker thinks on that, then says, “You know, some people think Stewart House is haunted.”
I keep my face composed as a tickle of foreboding lifts the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Haunted? Like, how?”
“I don’t know. Weird shit’s happened, supposedly.”
“What do you mean? Like, ghosts?”
“I guess. At least a few people must’ve died here over the last century, right?”
I know of one off the top of my head, and another who passed down shore.
Not for the first time, I wonder if Tucker’s heard about Chloe.
“Take the kittens,” he says. “Have you seen evidence of the mother cat since we took them to the shelter?”
“No.”
“Me neither, and I’m out in the yard all the time. What would make her bail on her babies? And there’s other stuff, too.”
“Like what?” I ask, breathy and eager.
He gives me a long, analytical look. “You know what? Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
“You have to sleep here—I don’t want to freak you out.”
“Tucker.” I drop my hand onto his arm, brazenness that comes out of nowhere. I feel kind of bad, attempting to manipulate him, but if he has information about this house and hypothetical paranormal activity, I need it. “Please, tell me.”
He deliberates. “Is your aunt gonna fire me for giving you nightmares?”
I give his arm a squeeze before moving my hand. “She’ll never know we talked about this.”
He clears his throat, bemused, before saying, “When I was in high school, the year before Lucy moved in, a bunch of people from my class used to drive down from Shell City to hang out on the property—Brynn and Drew, pretty much everybody.”
“You?”
“Not really my scene. But the house was abandoned and secluded, and they could get away with a lot.”
I nod, trying to appear vaguely interested, not ravenous for more.
“Sometimes they’d see weird stuff. Blinking lights. Shadows behind a window, kind of like you. They’d hear—I don’t know—unnatural sounds. All that stupid shit from ghost stories nobody believes. I mean, why would a ghost hang out here, fucking with teenagers by whistling and flashing lights?”
Why would a ghost scare a lonely girl late at night?
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say, because it doesn’t. The stretch of time Tucker’s talking about was before Chloe died. Either his friends have imaginations more active than mine, or the ghost that haunted them wasn’t my sister.
My heart sinks. Does this mean the ghost that’s haunting me isn’t Chloe?
I open my mouth to tell him what’s been happening—the poppies, the sounds, the chills, the dreams, my sister’s cap and goggles and notebook—but I quickly change my mind.
I don’t want him to think differently of me.
“What?” he asks, all rasp and suspicion.
I shake my head. “I need to get back to work.”
21
After turkey meatloaf and benign dinner conversation with Lucy, I search for Bell Cove Public Library’s address online. My ghost hasn’t needled me since the attic window, but A’s letters and their possible connection to Annabel Tate won’t let me be. Despite Tucker’s lack of interest, I want to know more about this person who wrote of her biggest mistake.
After borrowing a bike from Lucy’s shed, diligently ignoring the lone wet suit draped over an old sawhorse, I take off toward town. The wind tosses my hair and makes my eyes water, but the ride is rejuvenating. I haven’t gotten any real exercise since the day I ditched Lucy’s Range Rover and sprinted up the hill, and I’m flying high when I park in front of the library.
It’s a brick building, its interior bright but sparse. Aside from the librarian behind the circulation desk—she gives me a friendly wave—the place is empty. I browse for a few minutes, walking the perimeter, past novels and reference books and magazines that’ve seen better days, before finding myself in a section of gardening books. The shelves are packed with hardcovers detailing trees, fl
owers, shrubs, seasons, and the pH balance of soil. I recognize a few titles from my mom’s collection—though, she hasn’t done anything garden-related in a year. Toward the bottom of the shelf, one book catches my eye, facing out among the many spines: Common Flowers and Their Symbolisms.
I lift it and open to the index, surveying the entries until … Poppies.
I find the entry, photographs of colorful flowers splattered across the page. I read standing in the aisle, beginning with a Greek legend I’ve heard before: the kidnapping of Persephone by Hades, who claimed her as his bride and whisked her away to the underworld. Persephone’s mother, Demeter, was distraught by her disappearance and searched the world for her, neglecting her duties as the goddess of harvest. A piece of the myth I’ve never heard, though, according to Common Flowers and Their Symbolisms, is this: Too distressed to sleep while searching for her daughter, Demeter created the poppy flower to get some rest. The entry ends with a list of the many things poppies have historically symbolized—beauty, eternal life, loyalty, slumber, death.
I wonder: If the poppies I’ve found really were left by a spirit, what message were they meant to communicate?
I pull my hoodie tighter around me, warding off a draft, then prop Common Flowers and Their Symbolisms back on its shelf and get down to business.
It’s a half hour to closing when I approach the circulation desk. The librarian looks like she’s in her midtwenties, brunette and pretty. I suspect she’s a Bell Cove lifer.
“What can I help you with?” she asks.
“I’m looking for yearbooks,” I tell her. “From the high school in Shell City.”
“We have them all the way back to the fifties, when the school opened. We keep them behind the desk, though, because they have a tendency to become defaced. Kids these days.” She smiles, rolling her eyes. “What year are you looking for? I’ll hunt it down.”
I do some quick math. If Annabel was nineteen when she died in 1999, she likely graduated that year, or the year before. “I’m not sure,” I say. “Late nineties. Can I look at a few?”
“Sure. You can’t check them out, but if you need photocopies, I’m happy to run them.”
How the Light Gets In Page 9