Bolt spun the tiny wheels on a shiny new Matchbox car, one of Grade’s many treasures. “What happens to all this stuff? It must pile up here after a while.”
“I believe the toys are collected periodically and distributed to needy children.” She dug into her purse and fished out two quarters and a bright copper penny. She placed the coins in Grade’s lap in the curve of her fingers. Two carnations—one red, one white—went into the pot of ivy. “I’m sorry, little friend,” she whispered. “This is all I have for you today.”
Bolt noted that the pile of coins in the statue’s lap probably added up to three or four dollars. “What about the money? Anybody could just steal it.”
Mary Scarlett flashed him an arch look. “Could you steal Gracie’s money?”
“No, but somebody might.”
“Anyone who needs it is welcome to it. That’s part of the mystique surrounding Grade. She gave of herself when she was alive. She’s still giving. The poor of Savannah all know her, and know that if they’re hungry, they can count on Grade for enough change for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.”
Bolt was smiling now. He caressed the child’s shoulder. “Savannah has some nice traditions.”
“And some nice people,” Mary Scarlett added, slipping her arm through his.
They said goodbye to Grade and wandered down the aisles of pink and white azaleas. Some of the ancient bushes grew as high as Bolt’s head, while Spanish moss drifted down from low-hanging oak limbs to brush against his face. They approached a wrought-iron spear fence, identical to the one that surrounded the house on Bull Street. An arch at the entrance proclaimed the name “LAMAR” in fancifully scrolled letters entwined with metal leaves and lilies. Beyond the fence and gate stretched an eclectic collection of stone angels, table tombs, obelisks, crosses, lambs, and one Gothic mausoleum stained dark with age.
Bolt glanced at the dates on the earliest graves. A number of them predated 1869, the year Bonaventure Plantation became Bonaventure Cemetery. Before that date, Mary Scarlett’s people had been buried at the Colonial Cemetery in Savannah proper. Many of the graves had been removed to this quieter and more idyllic setting.
Mary Scarlett seemed oblivious to the graves of her ancestors as she hurried to a newer section of more modern and more subtle markers. There, off to the right, facing the river, stood the stones of her mother and great-grandmother, side by side. Bolt noted that Lucy Lamar’s stone was twice the width of Granny Boo’s. On the left half of Miss Lucy’s stone, he read the inscription: “RICHARD HABERSHAM LAMAR, Born December 20, 1938.” A blank space next to his birthdate awaited the unknown date of his death, just as the empty earth beside his wife awaited the discovery and burial of his remains. Not a likely possibility since he had been missing these past six years.
Mary Scarlett knelt before the two graves, said a silent prayer, then placed the flowers in the two brass vases. She knew they had remained empty until now unless some kind stranger had passed this way and, noticing the sad and lonely tombs, had offered gifts even as strangers bestowed presents on little Gracie.
She remained where she was for some time, pulling dandelions and patches of chickweed from the graves.
“Do you want me to scout around and see if I see any tombstones with 1828 on them?” Bolt’s question was a gentle reminder that they were really here on other business.
Mary Scarlett kept at her work. “I know where to find her grave.”
“You do? How?”
“It stands to reason that she’s buried with or near the Tattnalls. They’re all together over there.” She motioned with the dandelion she had just pulled and its ballerina-like seeds drifted on the breeze toward the original Tattnall burying ground, the very place where Jacques St. Julian had kissed a pretty maiden long ago.
“What if there’s more than one grave with that date?”
Mary Scarlett rose and dusted off her slacks. “I think I’ll know when I find her.”
“How?”
She smiled and shook her head. “That I can’t tell you. I just feel like I’ll know.”
Bolt offered his hand. They strolled at a leisurely pace, following the flight of the dandelion seeds.
Inside a stone coping, surrounded by towering Indian azaleas that burned like fuschia flame in the sun, they found the Tattnall plot. Mary Scarlett and Bolt moved cautiously among the gracefully weathered monuments, searching for the right date. All the clan were gathered there. For one final party, Mary Scarlett mused. An eternal family reunion. Sleeping silently, side by side.
“Harriette Fenwick, wife of Commodore Josiah Tattnall, Jr.,” Mary Scarlett read aloud. The Commodore himself lay next to his wife. His stone was engraved “US & CSN,” a man who had served on both sides.
“Look here,” Bolt said. “The Commodore died in 1871. His wife remarried—a fellow named Edward Fenwick Neufville. I’ll bet they were cousins. She outlived the Commodore by thirty-three years. Wonder why they called him ‘Commodore’?”
“Probably because he served in the Confederate Navy. Bolt, you’re not sticking to business. It’s a woman’s grave we’re searching for.”
“Well, that woman could be Harriette, couldn’t she?”
“No. Look at the dates. You said yourself that she outlived her husband. See, she died in 1904. Wrong century.” Mary Scarlett paused with her fingers still touching the cool stone. “You know what? We may be getting close. I believe the Commodore must have been the son of the master of Bonaventure Plantation.”
“He’d be Josiah Tattnall, Sr.”
“Yes! And here he is.” She read from the stone excitedly, “‘Josiah Tattnall, Esq., who after having enjoyed the highest honours of the state, died at the age of 38, in 1803, an honest man, rich in the estimation of all who knew him.’”
“His wife’s right here. She died December 3, 1802, at the age of thirty-three. Folks sure didn’t have much time to live their lives back then.”
“They didn’t have modern medicine,” Mary Scarlett replied. “It can cure almost anything except old age.”
“Here’s another Josiah,” Bolt said, still grave-browsing. “He was born in 1794, the year before the Commodore. Poor little fellow. He only lived a few months.”
“They lost more than one child,” Mary Scarlett said softly. “Mary Mullryne Tattnall died at age eight that same year. They lost Sally at six months and Charlotte at a year. It seems only Josiah survived to adulthood.”
“What about this one—Claudia Tattnall? She lived to be seventeen.”
“I don’t think she’s one of the children, Bolt. Look at the dates. Claudia was born when Josiah Sr. was only fourteen himself. I’ll bet she was his younger sister.”
“Could she be the woman in your aura?”
“No. She died too early, 1806.”
Then Mary Scarlett spied it—an urn finial mounted on a dark pyramid atop a columned base. Without a word, she moved swiftly toward the striking monument, which was set a short distance away from the others in the plot. She stroked the age-pocked pyramid with trembling fingertips. When she read the inscription, she knew for sure that this was the figure in her aura, the woman who had fallen instantly and forever in love with Jacques St. Julian. Her name was Louise Manigault Robillard Fenwick.
Her epitaph—in beautifully engraved script—brought tears to Mary Scarlett’s eyes.
Fair Stranger whose feet have wandered to this land of silence
Contemplate this Stone.
Near it is interred Dust which once a lovely Form inhabited by a Mind,
Superior in Intelligence, worth and Amiableness, to most of her sex,
as a Daughter, Sister & Friend, as a Wife and Mother,
few whom she left behind can boast so bright an example.
“Bolt,” she whispered. “I’ve found her.”
He moved to Mary Scarlett’s side, took her hand, and quickly scanned the words on the tablet. “Beautiful words,
but who was she?”
“Granny Boo was her great-granddaughter. Remember the party here at Bonaventure, the night the mansion burned?”
“I remember what you told me about your dream.”
Fully aware of his skepticism, she said, “When I was here, she and I were one. I know how much she loved Jacques St. Julian because I fell in love with him that night, too. Granny Boo told me she married someone else, but I assumed it must have been an empty, unhappy marriage. I figured she must have just made the best of the rest of her life. She wasn’t like that, though. She was much stronger than I am. From the epitaph, I’d say she went on to marry, raise a family, and live an exemplary life.”
Bolt said something then, but Mary Scarlett’s thoughts were elsewhere. The two women had lived over a century apart and their losses had come in different ways. Mary Scarlett wondered how this young woman had reacted to Jacques St. Julian’s death. Surely she had been heartbroken, but she had picked up the pieces and gone on with her life. Mary Scarlett, on the other hand, had allowed herself to stagnate. It was time she made some decisions, found some direction in her life.
She looked up at Bolt through a mist of tears, but they were happy tears, determined tears. “I’m ready to go now,” she said. “I want to see Dr. Schlager. Right away! I think I understand everything now.”
“You do? Well, I wish you’d explain it all to me.”
“There’s no time for that, Bolt. You’ll know everything before long. Let’s get going.”
Mary Scarlett called Dr. Schlager from Bolt’s car phone. The hypnotherapist didn’t seem surprised in the least to hear from her.
“I have been expecting your call. Helga sensed earlier that something was happening in your life and that a great transition was in the offing.”
“Can you see us right now?”
“Certainly. Come immediately.”
Bolt reached over and touched Mary Scarlett’s arm to get her attention. He frowned and shook his head. “Not us,” he said. “I have an appointment with a new client—R.A. Tollison from Sea Island.”
Mary Scarlett gave him a disappointed, pleading look.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t cancel it. He’s an important man and his message sounded urgent. Won’t this evening do just as well?”
“No,” she said. “This can’t wait.”
On the other end of the line, the doctor had overheard their discussion. “Mary Scarlett, come without Bolton. I have a feeling his presence will not be needed for this session.”
She hesitated, nervous about going alone, but her need was too strong to wait. “Fine,” she answered.
Bolt leaned over and said into the phone, “I’ll have her on your doorstep in half an hour. You treat her nice, now. I’m going to get a full report later this afternoon.”
They both heard Schlager’s deep chuckle through the phone. “I will be waiting, Mary Scarlett.”
“What’s going on, honey?” Bolt asked when she replaced the phone. “Why all the rush?”
“I’m not sure, Bolt. I do know, though, that I’ve been spinning my wheels for far too long. I’ve accomplished nothing, wasted a good bit of my life. I got such a powerful feeling when I touched that stone. It was almost as if she was trying to speak to me. If I’m ever going to make contact, now is the time. There are so many questions I need to ask her, so many things to understand about our relationship. And most important of all, I need to know more about Jacques St. Julian. If he’s here, alive right now on this planet, then I mean to find him.”
The car phone rang as they cruised back into heavy traffic along Victory Drive. Bolt picked it up, still concentrating on his driving. Mary Scarlett noted both the frown on his face and the slight tone of displeasure in his voice.
“She’s right here, Allen. No, we haven’t been hiding out from you.”
Mary Scarlett rolled her eyes as she took the phone. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, least of all Allen Overman.
After preliminary greetings, Allen expressed his concern for her and said he had hated leaving her to face Bolton’s wrath alone.
“There was no problem, Allen. We’ve just been real busy the past couple of days, that’s all. I know I should have called and thanked you again for the party. No, please don’t plan another one for this coming weekend. I’m going to be moving.”
Bolt grinned when Mary Scarlett preempted Allen’s plans for more trysts in his garden, but frowned when she mentioned moving.
She assured Allen one last time that all was well, promised that they’d have lunch sometime soon, then clicked off.
“Moving?” Bolt demanded without preamble.
“Yes. I was going to tell you.”
“But instead you told Allen. I thought after last night things had changed.”
Mary Scarlett felt her face flush with pleasure and a bit of embarrassment. Last night was not a topic easily discussed in broad daylight while cruising beneath the tall palms of Victory Drive.
“It’s time, Bolt. You need your space and I need mine. You were a true friend to take me in and put up with me this long.”
“True friend?” he muttered. “I figured our friendship was a given. I thought last night had brought at least a subtle change in our relationship.”
Mary Scarlett slipped her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Bolt, you’re a dear, and, yes, last night changed everything. What happened between us was precious, too special to be discussed just yet. Give me some time, won’t you? Let me sort out my feelings before I have to talk about them openly. I think my visit with Dr. Schlager today will make it easier to…”
When her words trailed off, Bolt glanced down at her, his dark eyes smoldering. “To what? To decide whether last night meant anything or if it was just a one-night stand?”
“Hey, I don’t think you want to go there, Bolt,” she warned. “Just let it lie for now. We’ll talk this evening.”
His expression softened. “Promise?”
She nodded. How could she tell him she hoped to discover the identity of her own true love before this evening? Bolt simply wouldn’t understand, especially after last night. How could she have let her emotions and desires run away with her? And how could she have stopped what happened?
Glancing over at his strong, handsome profile, she smiled. Silly question! Who wouldn’t have gotten carried away under the circumstances, with this man who knew all the right things to say, all the tenderest spots to touch … to kiss? By the time they pulled up in front of Dr. Schlager’s, she was squirming in her seat from reliving her memories of the night before. It was a good thing Bolt had an appointment that he couldn’t break. Otherwise, she might have canceled her session with Schlager and suggested they go to Bolt’s apartment.
She leaned over and kissed him solidly before she got out of the car. Her actions clearly surprised him, but he joined in with enthusiasm.
“Will it keep till tonight, Bolt?”
“After that? I don’t know.”
Before he could say any more, Mary Scarlett was out of the car and on her way to the front door. She turned and waved as Bolt drove off.
She followed the fiery blaze of the CRX as it melted away down the street into the vibrant spring green of the landscape. Some of her confidence vanished with him. She stood at the door for several minutes before she could gather the courage to knock. The moment she did, Helga’s calm, smiling face chased all doubts from her mind.
“Good afternoon, Mary Scarlett. Do come in.”
“I hope I’m not inconveniencing Dr. Schlager.”
“Not at all. I had told him to expect your call.” She focused her gaze above Mary Scarlett’s forehead. “Your aura is absolutely brilliant. One needs sunglasses to look at you.”
“Is she still there?”
Helga nodded.
Mary Scarlett could hardly wait to share her discovery with Dr. Schlager. Sensing her eagerness, Hel
ga ushered her to his library immediately.
When they entered the room, the doctor was leaning over his desk, a magnifying glass in his hand as he studied what looked to be a large map. He glanced up and smiled when he heard them come in.
“Ah, good! You have come, Mary Scarlet. And what news do you bring?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “How did you know I’d have news?”
He and Helga exchanged knowing glances. “Simply a speculation, my dear. But, tell me, did you go to Bonaventure?”
“Yes, we did.” She eased into a chair near the desk and leaned toward the doctor. “We had just left there when I called you. I knew I had to see you right away.”
“I am glad you called.”
Once more Helga brought tea before she joined them. “Her aura is perfectly glorious this afternoon, Manfred. I believe she learned something vital.”
“Yes!” Mary Scarlett exclaimed. “Maybe the most important thing I’ve ever learned in all my life.”
Dr. Schlager arched an eyebrow. “Indeed!”
She was about to rush ahead, telling him all about the Tattnalls and the party and Louise Manigault Robillard Fenwick, but he held up his hands to silence her.
“Let us search out all the details of your experience,” he suggested. “If you are ready to submit to hypnosis, we can learn much more than what you remember. The subconscious retains infinite details that the senses pass over or forget.”
Mary Scarlett glanced toward the door to the other room. “You mean now? Without Bolt?”
The doctor nodded. “I told you he would not be needed today. Well, Mary Scarlett? Are you willing? I truly believe this to be the perfect time.”
“With your aura so bright, there could be no better time,” Helga urged.
“All right,” Mary Scarlett agreed, feeling her palms grow sweaty even as she said the words.
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