Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “No!” she cried, frantic at the thought. Then she smiled back at the doctor. “I’m not sure where Teaujac and Annie and the others are, but if that was Heaven we were talking to, I don’t think we’ll find Raul there.”

  The doctor raised a bushy eyebrow. “Oh, I see.”

  “One thing I do know—I must find that mirror!”

  “If we’re right about the plane, and if you’re right about seeing it in the cupboard, then someone must have stolen it,” Bolt said. “And whoever took it has sent it away from Savannah. No doubt to sell it.”

  “Oh, no!” Mary Scarlett cried. “Bolt, we have to do something. It could be lost forever.”

  Dr. Schlager chuckled. “I think not! You see, my dear, once it arrives at its destination, those on the other side will know where it is. Think about it—have you ever mailed a letter to some distant city and tried to guess as it was en route where it might be at any given moment? Such is their dilemma. We will contact the spirits in a few days and they will give us the answer you seek. Until then, I think we must concentrate on discovering the identity of this mystery woman who crossed over in 1828.”

  “But where do we start?” Mary Scarlett asked.

  “At the cemetery?” Bolt suggested ironically.

  “Sometimes you surprise me, Conrad. That’s exactly what I was about to say.”

  “But there are several here in Savannah. And what if she’s not buried here, but somewhere else?” Mary Scarlett looked defeated already.

  “Bonaventure.” It was the last word Helga spoke before she woke from her trance.

  The session at Dr. Schlager’s ended shortly after that. Midnight was fast approaching and they were all exhausted from the evening’s work. They agreed to meet again on Friday evening.

  The drive home was fast and silent.

  “I wish I’d thought to ask the spirits what I can do to get rid of Raul,” Mary Scarlett said as they entered Bolt’s apartment

  “Hey, you know what they would have said—their answer to everything. ‘You must find the mirror!’” he intoned in a deep, ghostly voice. “They’re really hung up on that thing.”

  “Don’t make jokes, Bolt. This is serious. To me, at least.”

  He draped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “I know that, honey. I guess my problem is that I don’t really believe in any of this stuff. Reincarnation, spirits, voices from the other side.”

  She turned and stared at him. “Bolt? If you don’t believe, why on earth did you insist that I see Dr. Schlager in the first place?”

  “He’s a nice fellow. I knew you needed to talk to somebody and I also knew you’d never open up to a psychiatrist.”

  “Just coddling me, huh?”

  He pulled her gently into his arms. “No. But coddling sounds like fun.”

  When he kissed her, May Scarlett was sure for the first time that he was no longer mad about finding her in the garden with Allen. As the kiss progressed, all thoughts of Allen, or any other man, fled from her mind. Bolt was here, right now, holding her, making her feel loved and needed and wanted. She wanted him, too, she realized. But could she … ?

  “Are you too tired or would you like a nightcap, honey?”

  She smiled into his eyes and nuzzled his chin. “A glass of wine would be nice. I’m too keyed up to sleep. I want to talk about what we experienced tonight.”

  “You’re on!”

  He went to the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of Madeira. By the time he came back, Mary Scarlett had taken off her blazer and her shoes. She was stretched out on the sofa, looking absolutely her most desirable in her tight white slacks and black silk blouse, opened far enough to show a tantalizing hint of cleavage.

  Bolt handed her her wine, then sat down and lifted her bare feet to his lap. She sighed deeply as he began massaging her toes.

  “Ah, that’s wonderful!”

  “The wine?”

  She smiled at him—a lazy, sleepy, sexy smile. “The wine, too.”

  Bolt slid the leg of her slacks up and kneaded the muscles of her calf. Mary Scarlett felt every touch of his strong fingers send warm jolts through her blood. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for months began to throb with sweet urgency.

  Little by little, he slid toward her on the couch until she was practically in his lap. He moved his magic hands up her thighs, on to her hips.

  “You should give up the law and go into another business, Bolt. You’re good. Real good!”

  He laughed. “I’d never make a living at this.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Leaning closer, he brushed her lips. “Because you’re the only customer I’d ever want to work on.”

  She tingled all over when his hand went to the top button of her shirt. A moment later, he was stroking her breasts above the tight restriction of her black lace bra.

  “What was it you wanted to talk about, honey?”

  Head thrown back, eyes closed, Mary Scarlett whispered, “I forget.”

  Another button. Another tingle.

  “You should have married me,” he whispered, tracing the edge of the black lace and smiling when he saw her tremble at his touch.

  “I know. But if we were old married folks, we’d probably be sleeping in twin beds by now and you’d be fast asleep, snoring, and keeping me awake.”

  “I don’t snore!”

  “Maybe not. But if we weren’t in bed already—separate beds—you’d be watching a Braves game while I knitted.”

  “I didn’t know you could knit.”

  “I can’t. But I’d have to take it up so I’d have something to do every night while you watched the games and ignored me.”

  He certainly wasn’t ignoring her at the moment. Now all the buttons were undone and Bolt was drawing a design on her flat midriff with one teasing finger. Finishing that tantalizing game, he moved his hand back to stroke the black lace.

  He leaned down and kissed the soft, deep valley between her breasts. Mary Scarlett caught her breath.

  “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” she murmured.

  “Good things, I hope.”

  “Too good!”

  He stared into her eyes, unsmiling. “Nothing’s too good for you, Mary Scarlett.”

  “You are,” she murmured.

  She couldn’t imagine what she’d said that struck a nerve, but Bolt pulled back. He sat on the sofa, head drooping, staring down at his hands, now at rest.

  “Mary Scarlett, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “Nothing that really matters, Bolt. Why, I’ve known you forever.”

  “No, you haven’t. And that’s what scares me. You’re going to find out things about me if we go through this dual hypnosis. Things that I’m afraid you won’t like. This could be the end of us—period!”

  She leaned forward and stroked his cheek. “Bolt, you know that’s not so. Besides, remember what Helga and Dr. Schlager said? They think we belong together and have shared many lives in the past. So you just stop that talk. Come back here!”

  She shrugged out of her silk shirt and pulled him toward her until his cheek rested against her breasts. His warm breath felt wonderful through the thin lace.

  A moment later, the lace vanished. In one deft motion, Bolt unsnapped the center clasp and the little bra fell away. Now he was kissing hot bare flesh, cooling it with his tongue, squeezing it in his hands. Mary Scarlett felt as if she were floating somewhere above the couch.

  Raul appeared momentarily to stand over them, scowling. Bolt’s loving attention banished him as quickly as he had appeared. Mary Scarlett forgot all about her brutal Spaniard. All she could think about was how wonderful Bolt’s body felt next to hers.

  Before she realized what was happening, they were naked, in each other’s arms, their bodies kissing from lips to toes. Sometime during that long, lazy kiss, he entered her, filling her with a heat and a power like none she had ever
known. Slowly, gently, he urged her to join his rhythm. Soon they were moving together, taking off for a heavenly flight.

  All the while, they kept their eyes open, staring in wonder at what was happening between them. Mary Scarlett watched Bolt’s eyes grow darker as the pleasure grew. She could see the reflection of her own face there—lips smiling, nostrils flared. It was like looking into a mirror that softened and complemented her image.

  Bolt leaned down, blocking the sight as he covered her lips with his. His kiss was hard and deep and hot—the final thrust to send her spiraling off into space. She clung tightly to him, trying to make the feeling last forever. He arched hard against her and cried out her name.

  Then no one moved. They lay together, wondering if this had finally happened, after so many years of longing for it, dreaming of it.

  After a long time, Bolt kissed her softly, then whispered, “No Raul?”

  Mary Scarlett smiled up at him and brushed the damp hair off his forehead. “He wouldn’t dare intrude on such a moment. You scared him away, Bolt. I think you may have chased him off forever.”

  “Good riddance,” he answered.

  Neither of them spoke again for a long time. They were content to lie together, kissing softly, touching, caressing.

  “Mary Scarlett?” Bolt said at length. “Do I need to say I love you?”

  “Always,” she whispered dreamily.

  She touched his lips with her fingertips. After what had happened between them tonight, the words seemed superfluous, but she still loved hearing them. She closed her eyes, still smiling, and drifted off to sleep.

  It was much later when she woke. Bolt had covered her with a patchwork throw and gone to his bed. She dragged herself up, feeling her muscles ache wonderfully, and went to her own bed. For a time, she lay there in the darkness, wondering what would happen now. There were so many decisions still to be made, so many problems to be worked out. But Bolt had solved some of them tonight. He had banished the ghost of Raul. Maybe Dr. Schlager could put the rest of her house in order.

  Finally, when she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, she drifted off. She slept deeply the rest of the night, without her usual nightmares.

  Twelve

  To Mary Scarlett, Bonaventure seemed exactly the same as it had been that long-ago afternoon when her family had gathered under the moss-weeping oaks to say goodbye to Granny Boo. But in reality everything was changed. For the first time, she would be visiting her mother’s grave, and returning to visit Granny Boo. This was now her family’s real home. Mary Scarlett had changed, too. No longer an innocent young woman, she was a life-scarred widow, searching the past for a clue to her future.

  Just outside the cemetery gate they had come upon an enterprising vendor selling bouquets and wreaths. Bolt had stopped the car, sensing Mary Scarlett’s need to bring flowers to decorate the graves of her relatives. As they drove through the gate, she clutched two newspaper-wrapped sprays of carnations—white for her mother, red for Granny Boo.

  Neither of them had spoken of the night before. It seemed almost like a dream by the light of day, far removed from this visit with the dead.

  “Park here by the gate, Bolt. I’d like to walk to the plot.”

  “Are you sure? It’s mighty hot this morning.”

  “Please,” she said softly.

  He pulled in and cut off the engine. They both sat in silence for a moment, staring out toward the river through the oaks and azaleas, dotted with monuments that created the illusion of an ancient city in all its springtime glory.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” Mary Scarlett whispered. “This place must surely be a comfort after all the chaos of life.”

  Bolt made no comment, even though her remark troubled him deeply. He didn’t like to hear Mary Scarlett voicing such morbid thoughts.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded. A minute later they were walking along the road that had once led to the magnificent Tattnall mansion. Mary Scarlett’s thoughts wandered back to the party the night the house burned. Had Granny Boo actually brought her here or had she only dreamed it?

  “I wish you could have seen the old plantation, Bolt. It was quite a showplace, palatial and elegant, constructed of the finest English brick. Every room was like a museum of European treasures. Now it’s gone, all gone.”

  She seemed to be off in a world of her own. Bolt felt left out. He needed her back here with him, in the present.

  “There’s an old piece of the foundation,” he said, hoping to snap her out of it.

  Mary Scarlett leaned down to place her hand on the crumbling block of tabby, all covered with vines that were eroding it even more. She looked up at Bolt, a melancholy smile on her face. “Yes. This was definitely part of the house. I can still feel the vibrations of the past when I touch it.”

  Bolt placed his palm next to hers. He felt nothing except the sharp edges of broken oyster shells and the subtle heat from Mary Scarlett’s flesh. He inched his fingers closer until his hand covered hers. For a moment, their eyes met and visions of the previous night flashed through their minds. Then she stood straight and looked away.

  “Well?” He glanced around, trying to orient himself in the confusing maze of footpaths and roads. “Which way first?”

  Mary Scarlett’s answer shocked him. “I’d really like to see the Conrad plot, Bolt. You know my whole family’s darkest secrets, but you’ve never told me anything about your ancestors.”

  His collar felt too tight suddenly. There was a good reason he’d never discussed his ancestors with Mary Scarlett or any of their friends. He wasn’t sure who they all were. He did know that if they had ever visited any of Mary Scarlett’s forebears, his people had gone to the back door, not the front. It was a sign of prestige to be buried at Bonaventure. Not one of his relatives had enough status to be laid to rest in this lush garden of the dead. Then he remembered something and grinned at her.

  “I had a great-uncle who was put in the Stranger’s Tomb for nearly a year.”

  Mary Scarlett’s eyes lit with interest. She turned to look back at the large marble mausoleum near the gate. William Gaston died on a trip north and had to be buried far away from his beloved Savannah. To honor his memory, his family built the vault back in the 1800s, providing a tomb where visitors to Savannah who came to death unexpectedly might have a place to rest until their remains could be returned to their homes. So William Gaston, famous for his hospitality in life, continued to entertain guests after his death.

  “I’ve never known anyone who was entombed there. Tell me about this great uncle of yours, Bolt.”

  “There’s not a lot to tell. My grandfather’s brother was a sailor on a whaling ship out of Nantucket. After an especially long and profitable voyage, he came home to Savannah for a visit with his kin and died unexpectedly, so the story goes, from drinking rot-gut whiskey. A rather ignoble end, but some of the Gastons saw him as a romantic figure since he had sailed all over the world in pursuit of whales. I guess it was something of a philanthropic gesture to put the old boy up. You know, give the poor bloke a place to rest his bones for a time. There was another story passed down in the family, but I’ve never believed it.”

  “Tell me!” Mary Scarlett begged.

  He shook his head and laughed nervously. “It’s just bunk. You know how people here in Savannah talk.”

  “Please, Bolt!”

  “Well, my daddy used to say that one of the Gaston ladies took a shine to Uncle Delbert. I find that hard to swallow, considering the fact that while the Gastons were socially prominent, my great-uncle’s favorite hangouts were dock-side bars and his favorite ladies strolled River Street after dark. The tale was always a big hit in the family, though.”

  “I think it’s a wonderful story.”

  They walked on, Mary Scarlett’s desire to see the nonexistent Conrad family plot diverted for the time being, to Bolt’s vast relief.

  “Granny Boo
is just over there,” she said, pointing to a vast enclosure that held the remains of a variety of her far-reaching family ties.

  “Look at this,” Bolt said. “What a pretty child!”

  He was standing at an enclosure dominated by the pure white marble likeness of a girl of six or seven. Staring straight ahead, the child had bangs and soft curls draped over her shoulders and was dressed in Victorian style—all smocked and tucked and ruffled. She sat with her neatly buttoned hightop boots crossed at the ankles, her right hand curled in her lap while her left rested on a broken column, the symbol of a life cut off in its prime. At the base of the monument, a dime-store-variety papier-maché bunny peeked out of the pot of ivy, its leathery green leaves dotted with bright plastic flowers left by visitors who had never met the long-dead child. Most unusual of all, the little girl wore strings of colored beads about her neck and a blue satin ribbon tied round her stone hair. A rag doll lay in her lap along with smaller toys and a whole piggy bank’s worth of coins.

  “Why, it’s little Grade!” Mary Scarlett cried with delight. “I’d forgotten she was here. Mama always used to bring me to visit her grave when we came to tend the family plot.”

  “Was Grade one of your relatives?”

  Mary Scarlett walked to the stone image and stroked her hair as she might greet a real child. “Grade’s sort of a part of everybody’s family. Everyone in Savannah loved her during her short life. And everyone has loved her since as well. I wish I’d remembered to bring her a gift.”

  “I don’t think she’ll miss it from the looks of all her pretties.” Bolt fingered the long strand of pink beads around the statue’s neck.

  “When I was little,” Mary Scarlett said, “I used to spend hours searching through my favorite possessions before coming out to Bonaventure, trying to decide what I’d give Grade. Every Easter I’d bring her a colored egg from my basket. At Halloween she’d get candy com. And Christmas was the best time of all, so I’d choose something special from my stocking.”

  “What happened to her?” Bolt asked.

  “She died suddenly—one of those childhood things like whooping cough or measles. Her father was the manager of the old Pulaski Hotel. Grade used to meet all the guests and welcome them. Then one morning the hotel guests came down to breakfast to learn that she had died during the night. It must have been a terrible blow to everyone who knew her.”