She was still standing there when she heard a knock followed by the front door opening and closing. A moment later, Nick appeared in the doorway. Running to him, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his neck.
“Hey,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “Glad to see you, too.” When Emma didn’t respond, he loosened her hold on him and took a step back. Taking in her stricken face, he lightly touched her cheek. “What’s wrong?”
“Aunt Tildy and I just had a fight.”
“What? You’ve never argue with her.”
Massaging her forehead, Emma crossed to the couch. Sinking down, she leaned her head back. “Nick, I think I’m losing my mind,” she answered in a weary voice.
“Oh come on, Em,” he replied, joining her. “It can’t be that bad. Just because Aunt Tildy got a little upset—”
“You don’t understand,” she interrupted, sitting up straight. “Aunt Tildy was more than a little upset...she was furious.”
“Why?”
“It was over a handkerchief I found in my room.”
“A handkerchief?”
“Yeah, she accused me of bringing it down from the attic.”
“Did you?”
Emma gave an angry snort. “Of course not. I found it lying on my pillow.”
“Maybe Aunt Tildy laid it there and forgot,” he said reasonably.
“She denied it.”
“Well, someone had to put it there.”
“One would assume so,” Emma muttered. She leaned toward him and placed a hand on his knee. “Nick, something weird’s going on—” she began and before she could stop herself, the words came rushing out. She went over everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Nick listened in silence until she was finished with her tale.
“Well?” Emma asked, removing her hand and crossing her arms.
“I knew we should’ve eloped to Vegas,” he mumbled.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Emma asked, feeling her anger rise.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Emma shot to her feet. “How about you believe me? How about you’re going to help me figure out what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Nick asked, rising. “It’s pretty obvious—you’re having second thoughts about the wedding.”
“I am not,” she declared.
“Then the pressure is getting to you and your imagination is playing tricks on you.”
“The handkerchief was not imagined,” she cried. “It was real.”
“Okay, Aunt Tildy did give it to you and forgot. She is in her eighties. Maybe her memory is beginning to slip.”
“Don’t be silly. Her mind’s as sharp as it’s always been.”
“Under normal circumstances, but the stress of hosting our wedding—” He stopped and shook his head. “I knew it would be too much for the old girl.”
“Nick.” Emma felt like stomping her foot in frustration. “You’re not listening to me.”
“Yes. I am.”
“No. You’re not.”
His face flushed. “Look, just because you don’t want to accept my perfectly reasonable explanations—”
“They’re not reasonable,” Emma interrupted. “You’re blowing me off, making excuses. I’m telling you something’s going on. I’m not having second thoughts, it’s not my imagination, and Aunt Tildy isn’t losing it.”
“We wouldn’t be having this discussion if we’d gone to Vegas.”
“Nick, you agreed to have our wedding here.”
“Only because you and your aunt wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Emma crossed her arms. “Oh, so now we forced you?”
Nick puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long breath. “Look, Em, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go, have a nice dinner, and quit arguing.”
She gave him a mutinous look. “I’ve decided I don’t want to have dinner.”
“Fine. Suit yourself,” he said, walking toward the door. “I think I’d better leave before one of us says something we’ll regret.” He stopped and turned. “You’re tired, Em. Get some rest and we’ll talk tomorrow after you’ve calmed down.”
For the second time, Emma was left standing alone in the library.
*
Emma paced her room. Dressed now in sweats and an old t-shirt, her tennis shoes slapped the floor as she moved from the window to the door to the bed and back again.
It was so unfair. First Aunt Tildy had falsely accused her of snooping in the attic, then Nick refused to listen to her concerns. They both acted as if she were the one to blame for whatever was going on. She hugged herself tightly. She was the victim not the villain.
Emma threw herself on the bed and punched her pillow as her attention traveled to the ceiling and she thought about the last time she had ventured into the room above her.
She’d been ten years old and bored. Looking for something to do, she had snuck to the attic while Aunt Tildy had been in the kitchen baking cookies. To her young eyes, she felt like she’d ventured into a cave full of treasures. Old trunks full of clothes, perfect for dress-up, boxes full of pictures, and toys dating back to when she was a baby. She spent a delightful hour going from one box, one trunk to the other until she got caught.
Aunt Tildy found her happily going through one of the trunks. Without a word, she’d taken Emma’s arm, marched her down the stairs to the kitchen, and proceeded to give her the longest lecture Emma had ever received. By the time she’d finished, Emma swore she’d never touch another thing that didn’t belong to her. And she hadn’t—the whole experience had left such an impression on her that even now she hesitated to open a cupboard or a drawer in any house where she was a guest. Even at Nick’s.
Her eyes narrowed, still thinking about the floor above her. Based on Aunt Tildy’s reaction, the handkerchief had come from the attic. What else was up there? Something that might shed a light on what was happening to her? She chewed on her lip.
No, leave it alone, she thought, tearing her attention away from the ceiling and curling up in a ball. Go to sleep, chalk today up to nerves. Even though she was innocent, tomorrow she’d apologize to Aunt Tildy then call Nick and smooth things over with him. Everything would be fine.
Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling again. But what if it wasn’t fine? She couldn’t help feeling as if the happy life she’d always dreamed of was somehow slipping through her fingers. She waited all of her life to find someone like Nick. She couldn’t lose him now.
Decision made, she slipped off the bed and after grabbing the flashlight from her nightstand, she walked to the door of her bedroom. Opening it quietly, she peered out into the darkened hallway. A thin sliver of light appeared beneath Aunt Tildy’s bedroom door. She’d have to pass by it in order to reach the attic. Could she do it without alerting Aunt Tildy? Last thing she needed was her great aunt finding her skulking in the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she shut her door and tip-toed down the long hall. When she made it past Aunt Tildy’s room her heart began to pound and she fought the desire to run the rest of the way. Any second her great aunt could open the door and discover her. Finally she reached the door to the attic. Wiping her damp palms on her sweatpants, she carefully turned the knob and stepped through the doorway, silently closing the door behind her.
In the darkness, a smell of mustiness rode the waves of heat drifting down from the upper floor of the old house. Patting the beads of sweat from her forehead, Emma flicked on her flashlight and mounted the stairs. The temperature rose the higher she climbed, and trickles of perspiration began to run down her spine, soaking into the waistband of her sweatpants. Once at the top, she shone her light around the room. Out of the corner of her eye, a shadow caught her attention.
Not again. Her stomach dropped, and the flashlight came close to falling from her hand as she whirled toward the shadow. The light hit it and Emma felt a sense of relief. Nothing but an
old headless dressmaker’s dummy.
Keeping the light on the dummy, Emma reached out, fumbling, until her fingers found the light switch. Flicking it on, she let out a deep breath. The attic was just as she recalled. The trunks, the boxes—a little dustier and it seemed the cobwebs had taken over—but not much had changed.
As she walked toward the center of the room, she noticed the haphazard stack of hatboxes in the corner. She remembered those. Aunt Tildy had hauled them down to the library when she was a child and she’d spent hours trying them on, wearing them for tea parties in the garden, the same garden where she’d now be a bride.
A frown crossed Emma’s face. At least she hoped she’d be a bride. If she didn’t get a handle on whatever was happening to her, the whole wedding might fall apart.
With renewed resolve, she stopped in the center of the room. Taking in the jumble of stored possessions, she tried to decide where to start. Where was the trunk that had earned her Aunt Tildy’s lecture? If she remembered correctly, it had been different from the rest of them. Plain and simple in design, it had had a flat top with tarnished brass hinges.
“There. Over in the corner,” she muttered to herself, crossing toward it.
She removed the boxes stacked on top and slowly opened the lid. A crazy image popped into her mind. Was this how Pandora felt?
The strong smell of moth balls hit her and she sneezed. Wiping her nose, she carefully removed a layer of clothes. She held up the top item, an old suit jacket. She picked up the second, a man’s white shirt now yellowed with age, the French cuffs still stiffly starched. Hmm, this must be Uncle William’s trunk. A twinge of guilt pricked at her. What right did she have, pawing through her late uncle’s things? But Aunt Tildy had said the handkerchief was something Uncle William had saved, and it hadn’t belonged to her. A mystery woman in Uncle William’s past? Maybe her identity lay in this trunk.
Sliding her hands underneath the pile of clothes, Emma lifted them out and peered over the side. Nothing. Just the wooden bottom staring up at her. Disappointed, she began to carefully stack the clothes back in the trunk. She’d almost finished when something slipped out from beneath the folds of another old suit jacket.
A square of cardboard lay on the dusty floor. Picking it up, Emma turned it face up. Her eyes rounded as she looked at the front.
A picture of what appeared to be a young Uncle William with his arms wrapped around a woman. And the woman wasn’t Aunt Tildy. Flipping it back over, Emma scanned the back of the photo. In the corner, the writing dimmed by the years was so faint, she’d come close to missing it. Squinting, Emma held it into the light and tried to make out the spidery handwriting. Not much...only the words “William and Martha’s engagement—May 24th 1945”. Who was “Martha”? The “M” embroidered on the handkerchief had stood for “Martha”, not “Matilda”?
Emma sat back on her heels and turned the photo right side up. This couldn’t be her Uncle William. It had to be another William. A friend with the same name? She looked closely at the faces. Nope, it was Uncle William. The eyes looking back at her held the same twinkle she’d always seen in her great uncle’s eyes.
The woman he held tightly to his side was in profile. The camera had caught her looking at Uncle William. And had caught the expression of total adoration as she gazed at him.
Emma felt her world rock. Her entire life, she’d heard stories about the great love Aunt Tildy and Uncle William had shared. Those stories had driven her to look for the same in her life. Now? It was obvious there’d been someone else before Aunt Tildy, and that someone had been important enough to Uncle William for him to save mementos of that relationship. Had this Martha died? Had Aunt Tildy been second choice?
More confused than before, Emma finished placing the remaining clothes back in the trunk, but not the photo. No, she would take it with her, back to her bedroom. There she’d decide if she had the guts to confront Aunt Tildy about the lies she’d been fed over the years.
*
“Emma...Emma.”
Startled out of sound sleep, she bolted up in bed. “W—w—what?”
Her gaze wandered the dark, trying to find the source of the whisper. Had she really heard someone call her name, or had she been dreaming? She turned on the bedside lamp and the dark vanished, replaced by a soft circle of light. She peered into the still shadowed corners, but nothing lurked. She was alone.
Getting out of bed, Emma crossed to the window. Had the whisper come from the garden? She held back the curtain and looked out into the night. A sudden movement by the two old maple trees caught her attention. Nick? Had he come in the middle of the night to make peace with her? How sweet.
Hurrying back to the bed, she pulled on her robe and fled the room. Downstairs, she threw back the deadbolt on the kitchen door and ran outside.
“Nick?” she called out softly from the back porch. “Are you out here?”
She wandered down the steps and farther away from the house. “Nick?” she repeated.
The sudden snap of a dead branch drew her deeper into the garden. Moonlight gilded Aunt Tildy’s flowers in dim light as a gentle breeze carried their scent over the lawn. Lightly, Emma stepped through the dewy grass until she’d reached the back of the garden. She stopped and cocked her head, but the only sound she heard was the croaking of a frog. Disappointed she turned to leave, but another sound to her left drew her attention.
She stopped and planted her hands on her hips. “Nick, is that you?”
A soft whisper, so soft that she couldn’t make out the words, floated toward her.
“Come out where I can see you.” Emma felt a tremor of alarm.
The whisper answered a response from the other side of the garden.
Nick, it had to be Nick. He was playing some kind of sick joke, trying to tease away her earlier concerns. This wasn’t going to be the romantic interlude she thought.
Emma whirled toward the noise. “Cut it out, Nick. You’re scaring me.”
The moon slid beneath a cloud, extinguishing the faint light. Darkness covered the garden. From behind her, the whisper turned to a hiss and sounded nearer. Emma’s alarm changed to fear, and she ran, but she couldn’t out distance the sound. The faster she ran, the closer it came.
Almost to the house and the safety of the porch light, her foot slipped in the damp grass. Falling forward, she landed hard on her knees and her hands.
This is ridiculous—fleeing from a sound, she thought, scooping the hair out of her face.
Angry now, Emma scrambled to her feet and spun toward the noise.
“Stop,” she yelled into the darkness.
Silence.
With a sigh, she turned back toward the house. A shadow by the flagstone patio suddenly waivered and began to move into the light. Whoever, whatever, lurked in the garden had effectively cut off her route.
Emma was tired of running, tired of feeling spooked. She stood her ground and waited.
Aunt Tildy stepped into circle of light cast by the porch light.
Relief weakened her knees and Emma staggered forward. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
Aunt Tildy pulled her robe tighter. “I heard you out here thrashing around,” she replied with a sniff. “I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”
Emma quickly crossed the distance between them and taking her great aunt’s arm, led her over to the glider. After settling Aunt Tildy on the cushioned seat, she joined her.
“We need to talk,” Emma began gently.
Aunt Tildy held up a hand, stopping her. “I’m sorry. I over-reacted about the handkerchief. I know you wouldn’t do something I’d forbidden.”
Remorse had Emma casting her attention to the flagstones at their feet. “I did go to the attic—”
Next to her, Aunt Tildy stiffened. “You lied to me? You brought the handkerchief down from the attic?” she asked in hushed tones.
“No,” Emma replied quickly. “I did find it lying on my pillow, and
I did go to the attic tonight—after our argument.” Her voice roughened. “I found a picture of Uncle William.”
“Oh dear, the one with Martha, no doubt,” her great aunt said, leaning back and placing her hands limply on her lap. “I suppose I owe you an explanation—”
“You think?” she shot back. “All my life you’ve filled me full of tales about how you and Uncle William were soul-mates, now—”
Aunt Tildy jerked forward. “We were soul-mates, are soul-mates.”
“Right.” Emma’s lips curled with disappointment. “Only you forgot to mention in all the stories about how Uncle William had another ‘soul-mate’...a woman he was going to marry.”
Aunt Tildy lifted her chin and gave an angry snort. “Martha was not his soul-mate.” she insisted, “She was the woman his parents expected him to marry.”
“You’re kidding me—an arranged marriage?”
Weary, Aunt Tildy sank back against the cushion. “Not exactly. William and Martha were childhood friends. Their parents were friends; they moved in the same social group. Everyone just took for granted they’d marry.”
“What happened?”
“Me,” she said, her voice short.
Emma stared out at the flower garden trying to absorb what her great aunt was telling her. “But how—”
“Martha had been my friend, too.” Aunt Tildy swallowed hard before continuing. “We’d met at finishing school. For two years, I listened to her stories about William. So being her friend, I was pleased when she invited me to be her maid of honor—”
“You stole Uncle William away from her on the eve of their wedding?” Emma hissed.
“I didn’t steal him,” Aunt Tildy huffed. “He wasn’t in love with her—not really.” Her eyes took on a far-away look. “He always said he never knew what love was until the day he met me.”
Emma’s mouth formed an “O” as the story her great aunt was telling her soaked in. “Brother, I bet that went over big with Martha,” she finally said.
Shadow Tales Page 5