The Fifth Petal

by Brunonia Barry

  “You’ll be okay,” Towner had told her earlier when she expressed doubts. “Pride’s Crossing may be just over the bridge and only one town away, but it’s a world apart.”

  Callie took a few deep breaths to center herself. Better.

  She turned on the radio. The Thanksgiving song she had sung for Rose was playing.

  Marta’s Volvo was even older than the one Callie drove. She pulled into the driveway and reached across to open the door. Callie grabbed her suitcase and put it in Marta’s backseat.

  Marta looked at her for a long moment, as if taking her in. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she finally said.

  Immediately, Callie noticed that Marta was dressed more glamorously than she had been at the fund-raiser. The neckline of her green velvet dress was cut low, and she wore a simple gold cross dangling into her cleavage, creating an intentional focal point. Her black hair, pulled back severely the night of the fund-raiser, hung straight and shoulder length. She wore red lipstick and had shadowed her eyelids a smoky grey.

  Callie hadn’t wanted to wear her dress to the hospital, so she’d packed it, intending to change at the house, as Towner had said she was planning to do.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” she said.

  “I’m glad to do it.”

  They both fell silent. It was a beautiful day. Along Salem’s North River, the view began to open up, and by the time they crossed the Beverly Bridge, there was water everywhere. Harbors merged and stretched inland, speckled with empty moorings. To the right of the bridge, most of Salem Sound was visible: from Marblehead north toward Gloucester and Rockport, to the border islands along the horizon. Lighthouses dotted the shore. Even with the windows up, Callie could smell the salt air.

  After the bridge, Marta turned right and followed the coastline north. The sun sat low on the horizon as they drove past stately old oaks and maples standing guard over the mansions of a grander era. The bare trees cast long shadows as the sun filtered through them to the water, reflecting back intermittently in blinding flashes.

  “Will Mr. Whiting Sr. be there?” Callie asked, glad to have thought of something to say.

  “Finn? Yes, of course. The entire family will be there. And a lot of guests as well. It’s a big, traditional Thanksgiving feast: everything from pottage to cheese, not soup to nuts as the usual saying goes. In this case, most of the nuts will be seated around the dinner table.”

  “Oh, really?” Callie was amused.

  “There are a few characters…the privileged kind.”

  Callie instantly regretted accepting this invitation. She wasn’t in the mood for a party, especially after what had happened at the hospital. And she dreaded the thought of the kinds of people who were likely to be the Whitings’ guests. She forced herself not to think about it. Not right now.

  “All very nice people,” Marta said, reading her. “Emily can be a bit of a snob, but you’ll get used to her.”

  “The Whitings talk only to God?” Callie joked, remembering a poem Rose had taught her to recite, saying the words aloud.

  “And this is good old Boston,

  The home of the bean and the cod.

  Where the Lowells talk only to Cabots,

  And the Cabots talk only to God.”

  “That was the Cabots, not the Whitings,” Marta said, sounding annoyed. Then, recovering her composure, she pointed. “But Henry Cabot Lodge used to live right over there, through those trees.”

  Callie squinted in the direction Marta was pointing. Even with most of the leaves gone, the trees were so thick it was impossible to glimpse the legendary mansion that lay beyond them.

  “Just follow my lead if you don’t know what fork to use.”

  “That’s right. I forgot you were the expert on etiquette.” Callie didn’t mean it as sarcastically as it sounded.

  Once again, a scowl crossed Marta’s face. “That was Emily taking me down a peg, putting me in my rightful place in the social pecking order.”

  “Oh God,” Callie said. “Is that what she’s like? Can we just turn around now? I’ll treat you to a nice meal at the Hawthorne.”

  Marta laughed. “You’ll enjoy yourself. I saw the seating chart this morning. You’re next to Paul. I think he reconfigured Emily’s classic arrangement. Usually she’s got her darling boy seated right next to her. I don’t think Emily has noticed the switch, but there’ll be hell to pay when she discovers it.”

  Callie said nothing. Now she really wanted to turn around.

  They passed a train station. Callie read the sign: PRIDE’S CROSSING. The name said it all, she thought, wondering what illness she could feign to convince Marta to let her out here so she could take the train back to Salem. Marta put on her blinker and turned right. They drove down a long gravel driveway that was tunneled by two rows of mature elm trees, the afternoon light streaming through their web of branches.

  “The grounds here were designed by Frederick Law Olmsted,” Marta said. “It takes four full-time groundsmen to maintain them.”

  “Beautiful,” Callie said, meaning it.

  “Impressive, isn’t it? That’s one of the last rows of standing elms in New England.”

  The driveway turned as it approached a massive stone house, the line of elms giving way to rhododendron and mountain laurel. As they drove on, the view opened up to reveal a seascape that stretched past the border islands east toward the British Isles. Finally, Marta pulled up in front of the house. To say that Pride’s Heart was impressive was a gross understatement. It was a Georgian-style mansion that stretched over almost an acre of oceanfront land. The style was very British, making it clear to Callie that the Whitings had never fully left their ancestry behind.

  A uniformed butler came out to greet them, and Marta handed him her keys. Callie started for her overnight bag. “Leave it,” Marta said. “Darren will have someone take it to your room.”

  They approached the front door, and Darren held it open for them. As soon as they entered, a housemaid took their coats and directed them to the library.

  At the far end of the dark mahogany-paneled room, an attractive middle-aged man with greying hair sat at a huge partners desk. He was talking on the phone and stood when he saw Marta and Callie, gesturing that he’d be right with them.

  He ended the call and walked over to them, kissing Marta on the cheek. “So glad you could join us. Don’t you look lovely in your green dress.”

  “Callie, this is Paul Finnian Whiting,” Marta said.

  Finn looked at Callie and then shot a quick look at Marta, before taking Callie’s hand. “Finn,” he said. “So nice to meet you, Callie.”

  Callie felt his charm immediately. And though Emily Whiting was an attractive woman, it was evident her son’s striking good looks came from his father’s side of the family, except that Finn’s eyes weren’t deep blue, like Paul’s. Callie couldn’t name the color of Finn’s eyes, though he held eye contact more than long enough for her to get a good look. They were odd, really: mostly brown, with a darker ring around the edges, and a few flecks of green and blue. He wore glasses with frames that reflected the same combination of colors and lenses with a magnifying effect that made his long lashes look even longer.

  “Emily will be down in a minute,” he said. “Meanwhile, may I get you two a drink?”

  “I’ll have my usual,” Marta said.

  “Callie?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What are you serving?”

  “Anything you can name.”

  “I can’t name much, I’m afraid.” When it came to drinking, she was a lightweight. She didn’t get silly; she didn’t confuse her words. Instead, she became exceedingly quiet. The social skills she had, which were limited at best, were overrun by self-consciousness.

  “I’m having an Old-Fashioned,” Marta said. “If that helps.”

  It didn’t.

  Finn caught her confused look. “Whiskey, sugar, bitters, lemon, orange, and a cherry on top,” he said.

  “Sounds del
icious,” Callie said.

  “Far too delicious.” Marta smiled.

  “An Old-Fashioned sounds good to me,” Callie heard herself say. What in the world am I doing here? she wondered. The house was designed like a movie set, not a real home. Everything looked like old money. Callie could feel herself scowling as she looked around the library at the leather-bound collections; the marble and mahogany double partners desk was almost as large as any bedroom she’d had growing up.

  The door opened, and young Paul entered. “Callie O’Neill,” he said, surprised, before breaking into a wide grin. “So nice to see you again.”

  “Drink?” Finn asked his son.

  “I’m driving,” Paul said. “I have to run an errand to Salem.”

  “On Thanksgiving?”

  “He has to go to Ann’s for an hour or so. He cleared it with me weeks ago,” Emily said, sweeping into the room.

  Her hair was beautifully done, her navy silk dress and shoes perfect, but there was a weariness in her face. As soon as Emily smiled, though, the weariness disappeared. She kissed Marta on both cheeks, European style, then turned to Callie, extending her hand. “I’m so glad that you could make it, Callie. Did my husband offer you a drink?”

  Finn held up the Old-Fashioned he’d just finished mixing.

  “Paul’s team is helping to restore the rock churches of Matera,” Emily explained to Callie. “Ann Chase is helping Paul with research.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Finn said.

  “I’m running late, and I know you want me back ASAP,” Paul said, as he shot his father a look.

  “Damned right,” Finn said. “You know, Callie, a few years back there was a program called Ditch the Witch. I gave them a huge donation.”

  “Not from the foundation!” Emily was horrified.

  “Yes, from the foundation. I considered it urban renewal.”

  Marta smiled. It was clear she had heard this kind of banter before.

  “All those witches running around casting spells on our young men.” He held Callie’s glance for a long time.

  “That’s not true,” Emily said.

  “It is true,” Finn said. “Your son is obviously bewitched enough to be leaving us on Thanksgiving.”

  “Just for an hour,” she said. “You’ve been on the phone longer than that today.”

  “An hour, a week. It’s straight to the devil after that.” Finn looked at his son, who wasn’t taking the bait. “The devil has once again been raised in Salem.”

  “Some would say the devil never left Salem,” Marta said.

  “Witches don’t worship the devil,” Paul said. His tone had the good-natured edge of an ongoing discussion. “They’re Celtic Pagans in Salem; they don’t even believe in the devil.”

  “That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Finn said, wagging a finger.

  “Oh, I seem to remember you having a bit of interest in all things Celtic yourself, back in the day.” Marta smiled.

  “These days I’m into all things Celtic.” Finn laughed, changing the hard C to a soft one. “I’m a big basketball fan,” he said to Callie.

  “Have you met Ann Chase, Callie?” Marta asked. “Salem’s most famous witch?”

  “I haven’t. Isn’t she the one who did the painting you bid on?”

  “The witch paints now, too?” Finn said. “Is there any end to the talents of that woman?”

  “It was part of her collection,” Paul said. “She didn’t paint it.”

  Callie saw a look pass between Marta and Finn.

  “If you haven’t met Ann, you should go along with Paul,” Marta said. “Ann’s hosting her yearly open house today. She’s quite something.”

  “Would you like to come along?” Paul asked. “You’d be more than welcome.”

  Callie saw Emily tighten her lips. Her smile was beginning to look like a grimace.

  “But I just got here,” Callie said, with a nervous laugh. “I don’t want to be rude.”

  “Oh, go,” Marta cajoled. “Besides, I have some foundation business I need to speak to Finn and Emily about before the party starts.”

  “Go right ahead, dear,” Emily said, recovering her composure. “We’ll all have a few drinks in your absence and be much more polite to each other upon your return.”

  “This is a bit awkward, don’t you think?” Callie said as Paul held the car door for her.

  “What is?”

  “All of this. Marta pawning me off on you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m delighted to have your company.”

  Paul helped her into the old MG, its windows open, and then walked around to get in and start the engine. Callie struggled with her seat belt. “It sticks a bit,” he told her, and reached over to free it, pulling the belt out and buckling it in one quick motion, his arm brushing against her, sending a chill she hadn’t expected. They headed back down the magnificent driveway.

  “Your father certainly seems to disapprove of the woman we’re going to see,” Callie said. “I’m guessing that’s part of the reason we’re going.”

  He grinned. “If only it were that simple.”

  “I guess nothing is that simple,” she said.

  “You’d be right about that.” Paul pulled the car onto Route 127 and gunned the engine. By the time she rolled her window up, any chance Callie’d had of keeping her wild hair tamed was swept away by the wind and damp salt air.

  The MG crested the Beverly Bridge and Paul turned left, taking the back streets along the harbor into downtown Salem.

  Ann Chase lived down by Derby Wharf in a yellow house on Orange Street. It was the same part of town where Callie had lived with her mother and Rose and the Goddesses.

  They parked and got out of the car. Callie noticed a plaque on the side of the house: 1727.

  “It was once owned by an arresting officer for the court,” Paul remarked. “Not long after the hysteria ended. Ironic that a witch lives there now. But that’s Salem.”

  It was a small home. The door was open, and, as they walked in, Callie first noticed the huge fireplace, which took up most of one wall. There was a fire burning, fragrant with herbs and pine, with a cauldron full of hot mulled wine that hung from its lug pole. The house smelled the way real estate agents want houses to smell, Callie thought. Like apple pie and cookies.

  It was crowded. There were several young women in the living room, dressed in variations of black, some serving food and drinks, some standing around chatting. In the far corner, standing next to a man dressed as a pirate, was a towering redhead in a long purple crushed-velvet cape. It might have been the way the floors tilted, or it might have been her stature, but Callie realized that all paths and all eyes led directly to her. Feeling their presence, Ann Chase turned to face them. She looked Callie over seriously and then looked at Paul.

  She broke into a slow grin.

  Ann walked over, kissed Paul on the mouth, and extended a hand to Callie.

  “Have we met?”

  “If I’d met you, I’m certain I’d remember,” Callie said. It was almost exactly what Paul had said to her the night they met, but the meaning was completely different.

  Ann laughed. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

  She led them to a smaller L-shaped room, low ceilinged with sparse furniture: a rocking chair, an antique spinning wheel. On the far wall, herbs were drying over its fireplace, and on the facing wall were the portraits: dark oil paintings made darker by time. There were depictions of gods and goddesses and other Wiccan imagery: Pan, Bacchus, Samhain fertility beasts, expertly lit and hung sixty inches on center like a gallery show.

  “Ann is a collector of sacred imagery,” Paul said. “Her collection has become almost exclusively Celtic, which is why she donated the Roman painting, but you’d be surprised how many of the same images occur in early Christian art.” He pointed to some of the pictures. “Sacred fish, trees, crosses. All Pagan symbols that were later appropriated by the early C
hristians.”

  “Interesting,” Callie said, looking more closely at a painting of a harp. It appeared to be made from the branches of a tree. The title read: THE FOUR-ANGLED MUSIC.

  “What’s this?” Callie asked. “A tree?”

  “Uaithne. The Oak of Two Blossoms,” Ann said. “It belonged to one of the Celtic gods and was stolen by his enemies. But the god had bound the music, and the harp would not play until he commanded it. When he called to it, the harp sprang to life, killing nine of his enemies with the music it made.”

  “I thought harp music was supposed to be comforting!” Callie said. She’d been considering learning to play, or at least getting some recordings of harp music for her practice. There was evidence that the harp could play vibrational tones that had a soothing effect on both humans and animals, though the human ear could not detect them.

  Paul noticed the discomfited look on Callie’s face. “Ann knows quite a bit about Irish mythology,” he said. “As well as sacred imagery. She’s helped identify many of the images we’re finding in the rock churches we’re restoring in Matera. Contrary to my father’s remarks, she and I are actually doing some research here.”

  Among other things.

  Ann looked at her and broke into a grin, as if reading Callie’s thoughts. She motioned to a young woman carrying a tray of drinks. “Help yourselves.”

  “What’s in it?” Paul asked.

  “Eye of newt,” Ann answered. Then she said, “Seven-Up, cloves, Hawaiian Punch. And just the tiniest sprinkle of fairy dust.”

  “Will we fly?” Paul asked. He took a glass of punch and handed one to Callie.

  “Not unless you’ve ingested something earlier from Mummy’s medicine cabinet.”

  “Not today,” Paul replied.

  “So,” Ann said to Callie. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell.”

  “Oh, I’m certain that’s not true.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself first?” Callie said. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about herself to this woman.