“That’s not what I heard.”
“What exactly did you hear? And from whom?”
“Hattie Thorndyke was at the beauty shop this afternoon.”
Bolton rolled his eyes. “Christ, Mary Scarlett! That woman is one percent truth and ninety-nine percent bullshit and you know it.”
“You care about Kathleen, though. That’s pretty obvious.”
“Sure, I care about her,” Bolt said defensively. “Kathleen’s been through a lot. She was a sweet kid when we were in school and she still is.”
“And she’d fit right into the picket fence life you’ve always dreamed of. Right?”
Stung, he turned to stare at Mary Scarlett. “Is that the way you see me?”
“Isn’t that the way you’ve always seen yourself? With a proper little wife, kids, dogs, home, all enclosed neatly in a whitewashed fence?”
A fleeting glimpse of the house he had built flashed through his mind. He had insisted on the white picket fence with Cherokee roses climbing it. But that wasn’t really the fence she was talking about and he knew it. It was the tight-fitting emotional fence he had built around Mary Scarlett.
Guilty as charged, he thought.
He stopped toying with the olives in his martini and looked directly at her again. “I have no plans to get married, Mary Scarlett. Neither does Kathleen. Yes, we’ve been seeing a lot of each other these past few months, but we both see other people, too.”
Wrong thing to say! he realized immediately.
“Who else?” she demanded angrily. “What have you turned into, Bolt? Some kind of Savannah Don Juan?”
Her renewed rage broke the tension. Just how was he supposed to respond to that? He laughed, long and hard.
“Stop it!” she fumed. “How dare you laugh at me, Bolton Conrad?”
After a few minutes, he got control of himself. Still smiling, almost chuckling, he said, “I’m not laughing at you, honey. It’s this whole damn conversation that strikes me as funny. Think about it. I find you sobbing in a graveyard at some stranger’s tomb, with blood all over you, and what do we discuss? My nonexistent wedding plans. Doesn’t that strike you as just a bit funny?”
Mary Scarlett’s expression changed. She no longer looked angry. Nor was she amused. When Bolt mentioned the grave and the blood, her face drained of color. She crossed her wrists over her chest and rocked slowly back and forth in her chair, her head down.
“What is it, Mary Scarlett?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong? Can’t you tell me?”
She reached over, gripped his hand, and squeezed until her nails dug into his palm. “Bolt, could I be losing my mind?”
“Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Ever since I got back last night, strange things have been happening. I told you about what happened in the bathroom. I showed you the heart carved into the stone. Then the ship and Jean Lafitte. It happened again this afternoon in the Colonial Cemetery.”
“What do you mean? You saw Sean and Elisabeth again? Or was Lafitte lurking about?”
She shook her head. “No. I saw James Wilde, the duellist who’s been buried there since 1815.” Her voice faltered. She paused to control its trembling. “And I saw—no, I was—the girl he loved. The girl he would have married if he’d lived. I was there when they brought him back across the river from Screvens Ferry. He was in my arms when he died. The blood…” Overcome with emotion, she obviously couldn’t go on.
Bolt stared hard at her. “You’re telling me that was his blood?”
She nodded.
“That’s impossible, Mary Scarlett.”
“I know,” she whispered. “You tell me how it got there.”
“Well, even if we can’t explain it, that certainly doesn’t mean you’re losing your mind.”
“Granny Boo was crazy. Maybe it runs in my family.”
“Miss Beulah was as sane as you are.”
“That’s what I mean, Bolt. Maybe I’m like her.”
“But she wasn’t crazy. She only liked to make people think she was so they’d leave her alone. Eccentric perhaps, but not insane.”
Mary Scarlett looked up, her eyes bright with tears, but also warm with memories. “I never told anyone this, Bolt, but Granny Boo came to me the night of her funeral.”
“Came to you? I don’t understand.”
“Mama and Big Dick were having a terrific row downstairs. I never did find out what they were fighting about. My wedding probably. It upset me terribly. I was already so miserable, to think that Granny Boo was gone. I was crying, calling to her, begging her to take me where she’d gone. The next thing I knew, she was there in my room. She took me to a party.”
Now Bolt was looking at her as if she really had lost her mind.
Mary Scarlett stood up suddenly. Gripping the wrought-iron railing of the balcony, she gazed out over the river. “Bolt,” she whispered, “maybe Granny Boo is doing this. Now that I’m back in Savannah, we’re connected again. The feeling when I go back in time—it’s the same as when she took me to the party at Bonaventure.”
“You went to a party at the cemetery?”
She shook her head and turned back toward him. “It wasn’t a cemetery yet when she took me there. It was Bonaventure Plantation, the old Mulryne land grant from 1760. John Mulryne was an English colonel when he built the brick mansion and the terraced gardens on the bluff overlooking the Wilmington River. When his daughter married Josiah Tattnall from Charleston, her father planted oaks to commemorate the occasion. The same oaks that shade the graves today. If you look closely, you can see that the old trees are planted in a pattern, an entwined M and T to symbolize the joining of two great families.”
“I never knew you were so interested in Savannah history, Mary Scarlett. Where did you learn all that?”
She looked thoughtful, almost puzzled. Then she smiled. “I guess Granny Boo told me the night she took me to the party.”
Trying to cover his shock, Bolt said, “As I remember it, that’s only part of the story. The Revolutionary War split that family, like so many others, right down the middle. The elder Mulrynes and Tattnalls all returned to England. The Americans confiscated Bonaventure. It was returned to Josiah Tattnall, Jr., who fought valiantly for the colonies under General Nathanael Greene. Later the house burned during a dinner party.”
Mary Scarlett smiled and nodded. “I know. I was there. Granny Boo told me the party has never ended.”
A long stillness followed her words. Even the sounds from below on River Street seemed muffled and distant. Bolt jumped when the phone rang.
“Excuse me a minute?” he said.
He was glad he hadn’t brought the phone from the kitchen onto the balcony when he heard Kathleen’s voice at the other end of the line.
“I’m glad to hear from you,” he said warmly.
Ignoring that comment, Kathleen remained all business. “Another apartment listing on East Jones Street came in this afternoon that I thought your guest might find to her liking. That is, unless she’s decided on a place already.”
Bolt paused a minute before he said, “Actually, we haven’t had time to go over the list yet, much less look at any of the places.”
“Oh, I see,” Kathleen answered stiffly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I had thought that there was some urgency in the situation. I see I was mistaken. She’ll be staying with you for a while, then?”
“For tonight. Yes.”
“Then I suppose I’ll see the two of you at Allen’s Saturday evening.”
“Kathleen, are you sure you won’t come with us? I could pick you up…”
But the phone had gone dead. Their business talk at an end, Kathleen had hung up on him. Bolt sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
When he looked up, Mary Scarlett was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Checking up on you, is she?”
“Mary Scarlett, you wer
e eavesdropping. No, as a matter of fact, Kathleen was only trying to help. Earlier today she gave me a list of apartments for you to see. Another one came in late this afternoon. She thought you might like to look at it, too.”
“Awfully anxious to get me out of here, isn’t she? How about you, Bolt? Do you feel the same way?” Mary Scarlett moved closer and draped her arms over his shoulders.
He tried to ignore the cloud of Shalimar that enveloped him. It was his favorite scent and Mary Scarlett knew it. He had bought her her first bottle years ago, when he was a struggling law student who could ill afford such expensive luxuries. After she ran away, the scent had haunted him. If he passed a woman wearing Shalimar on the street, he would feel the pain of losing her all over again. It would take him hours, sometimes days, to get over his depression.
“You know you can stay here as long as you like, Mary Scarlett.” His voice was husky, her nearness and her perfume taking their toll.
“I’ll stay only as long as you want me, Bolt darling. Tell me to go and I’ll pack my bags this minute.”
“No!” he said, breathing deeply, closing his eyes. “No, don’t leave, Mary Scarlett.”
He gripped her slender waist and drew her near, closing his arms around her in a fierce embrace. Their kiss was long and slow and tender.
“I wish I still had my old Chevy,” Bolt whispered between kisses. “I’d put you right in the backseat.”
A shiver of pleasure passed through Mary Scarlett. His words brought back the nights after football games or movies when they’d park in a secluded spot beside the river and neck for hours. Everything short of actually making love. She remembered how light-headed and light-hearted she used to feel afterward, her whole body tingling, on fire with love and desire for Bolt.
Mary Scarlett was on the verge of suggesting the bedroom as an alternative to the Chevy’s backseat when Bolt suddenly drew away and laughed. “Too bad those days are long gone, eh? We’d be a bit cramped in the CRX. How about we look at that list of apartments, honey?”
Mary Scarlett was crushed, enraged, dumbfounded. How could he kiss her so passionately one minute, then try to give her the bum’s rush the next?
“Fine!” she said coldly.
She had no way of knowing how close Bolt had come to hauling her off to the bedroom without even asking. Another minute, another kiss, another whiff of Shalimar and he would have been out of control. He wanted Mary Scarlett. God, how he wanted her! But he’d learned from his past mistakes. He knew better than to rush into anything this time.
He could see the confusion in her face. He knew she would have been a willing lover moments before. Disappointed now, she could be dangerous.
“No need to rush things,” he said with a shrug. “We have all the time in the world. Right?”
“One never knows,” she answered.
Her words and their delivery left him feeling chilled to the bone. What was she thinking about? The sudden death of her husband? Or was she reminding him that he had lost her once before and warning him that it could happen again?
Trying his best to sound calm and casual, Bolt said, “I thought we could look over the list, see if anything strikes your fancy. But there’s no need to rush into this until you feel comfortable staying alone.”
They sat together on the sofa and read down the list. All the places were luxurious and priced accordingly. Kathleen knew Mary Scarlett’s tastes—that was obvious.
“What about it?” Bolt asked. “See anything you’d like to look at?”
Mary Scarlett leaned back on the leather couch and stretched her arms out along the back. “I’ve made a decision, Bolt. I’m not going to rent a place.”
His stunned expression made her smile. She could guess the thoughts going through his head—either that she meant to stay with him indefinitely or she meant to leave Savannah immediately. Obviously, he found either option disturbing.
After giving him another moment to think, she announced, “I’m moving into the house on Bull Street. As soon as possible.”
A grin replaced his frown. “Mary Scarlett, that’s great! You won’t be sorry. It’s a real showplace. And it’s your home.”
“There’s no place like home,” she replied, but Bolt missed her lack of enthusiasm.
“You’re right about that.”
“One thing, though, Bolt. I’d really like you to be with me when I go back for the first time. I don’t think I can do this by myself. Actually, that’s how I wound up in the cemetery this afternoon. I’d meant to go to the house, but I just couldn’t go alone.”
He reached over and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I’ll go with you, honey. It will be a treat to see the old place again. Just like old times.”
“Let’s hope not,” Mary Scarlett murmured under her breath.
The rest of their evening proved uneventful. Bolt ordered some barbecued ribs, coleslaw, and fries from a nearby soul food place. He dived in, but Mary Scarlett only picked at the spicy pork. Conversation was at a minimum since he was busy eating, while she seemed uninclined. In fact, Bolt noticed that Mary Scarlett seemed to have drifted off into a world of her own.
That fact was confirmed when she said, “I think I’ll take a shower then go to bed. I’m beat.”
“You do that,” he answered. “I have some papers to look over, but I plan to turn in early, too. See you in the morning.”
It was a lot earlier in the morning then he’d figured on when Bolt next saw Mary Scarlett. The tall case clock in his foyer had struck two only moments before he heard the scream. Fighting his way through layers of dreams, Bolt sat up in bed, groggy from being jolted awake so suddenly. He wasn’t even sure what woke him.
His flesh crawled as a second, soul-wrenching cry echoed through the apartment. “No! No! Get away from me! Help me! He’s hurting me!”
Bolt grabbed the pistol he kept in the drawer of the bedside table. He hit the floor running, tearing toward the guest bedroom two doors down the hall, more than ready to shoot to kill. He’d had two break-ins before he bought the gun, determined not to have his home violated again. Mary Scarlett’s screams seemed to indicate that the burglar had more on his mind than thievery tonight.
His finger on the trigger, Bolt eased the door open, then hit the wall switch. He couldn’t have been more astonished when the lights came on. He found no intruder. Only Mary Scarlett, fast asleep, sobbing, screaming, and fighting the covers. Quickly, he put the pistol aside and went to her.
“Mary Scarlett, hush now, honey.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to restrain her wildly flailing arms. “It’s Bolt, darlin’. You’re all right. Wake up.”
When her eyes opened suddenly, Bolt had never seen such terror and agony in his life. “Stop him,” she whimpered. “He’s hurting me, Bolt. Don’t let him do that to me.”
He drew her into his arms, comforting her as if she were a child. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, honey, not ever again.” As he talked to her, he smoothed her tangled hair. She was trembling all over. Whatever the source of her terror, it was genuine, at least to Mary Scarlett.
Her sobs softened to hiccuppy sighs.
“There. That’s better. I think we can both go back to sleep now.”
But when he tried to ease his arms from around her, she clung to him, desperate. “No! Don’t leave me. He’ll come back!”
“There’s nobody here, Mary Scarlett. Look around. The room’s empty. Just the two of us. You had a bad dream, that’s all.”
She refused to let go. “He’s only hiding. The minute you leave, he’ll be back. That’s the way he is.”
“Who, Mary Scarlett? Who are you talking about?”
She looked into his eyes, her own still wide and pale with terror. “Raul,” she whispered. “He knows I’m here. I thought I could hide from him, but he’s found me.” Her lips trembled and more tears came. “He’ll hurt me, just like he used to.”
&nb
sp; “You can’t mean your husband. He’s dead, Mary Scarlett. You told me so yourself.”
She shook her head fiercely. Her eyes darted about the room as if she might see Raul lurking in some corner. Then she leaned close and whispered in Bolt’s ear, “He only faked his death. He’s alive, Bolt! And he’s come for me. Please, please, don’t let him take me!”
“I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you. But Raul is dead, Mary Scarlett. Remember? You showed me the clipping about his funeral. You know he was buried. So he couldn’t have faked his death.”
Not a word of what he said seemed to sink in. “Turn the light off,” she begged. “He’s watching us.”
Bolt switched off the lights. The room was in total darkness now except for a hint of moonlight coming through the mini-blinds at the window.
“Is that better?” he asked.
Mary Scarlett seemed to relax just a bit in his arms. At least she went from rigid to tense. “You’ll stay with me?” she begged.
“Until you fall asleep.”
“No!” She went rigid again. “He’ll come back the minute you leave. You have to stay, Bolt.”
“All right. Don’t get upset again, honey. I’ll stay. I promise.”
That seemed to reassure her. She stretched out on one side of the bed and patted the other side, indicating that Bolt should lie down beside her. He obeyed, although the situation was not to his liking—or too much to his liking, depending upon which way he looked at it. He and Mary Scarlett had been many things to each other, but they had never been lovers. As a teenager, he’d had more wet dreams about her than he could count. The only things that had kept him sane over the years were the occasional loose girls he’d blown off steam with and the knowledge that someday Mary Scarlett would be his wife.
But that hadn’t happened. And now here they were, finally lying in bed together. He almost wished he had bought that antique bundling board he spotted in an antiques shop a few months back. He had thought about fitting it to this bed simply to amuse his guests. There was nothing the least bit amusing about his present situation. If this didn’t test his mettle, nothing would.
“Hold me,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”
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