“This is Ariel. We were just going to take a look at the necklace she’s wearing.”
Ariel cringed as Sarge held her while the lady untangled her fingers from the necklace. “Let me have the necklace, honey. Maybe it will help us find your mama.”
Ariel screeched as the young woman lifted the necklace over her head. The necklace was her only link to her family. “Mama’s! You can’t have it! It’s Mama’s!”
1
Fourteen years later.
Ariel studied the gift for a long moment, not certain she should accept the ribbon bedecked package. The leather box was old and had a sheen of quality that remained despite its advanced age. Hand tooled flowers, leaves and vines decorated the top and sides. The box, the designs, looked familiar.
Shifting her gaze from the box to the woman across the table, she cocked one eyebrow, "What is it?"
Rebecca Trail, the latest in a long, long line of social workers that threaded back over the last fourteen years of her life, couldn't afford to give her many young clients such gifts. Maybe a birthday card, but nothing this special. Rebecca had even arranged a special dinner in a restaurant where someone else brought the food to the table and there wasn't a paper napkin in the place. Though her eighteenth birthday wasn't for another three days, Ariel felt all grown up in the elegant surroundings.
"Open it," Rebecca urged with a secret smile.
Pulling the ribbons of the fancy red, white and blue bow, Ariel flipped the lid on the box, gasping when the contents came into view. "My necklace? I'd given up ever seeing it again. I’d started thinking it was all in my imagination."
The twenty-four-inch gold chain glowed with a warm patina not found in newer jewelry. The delicate chain highlighted the pearls and diamonds that alternated every few inches along its length. It was probably priceless as an antique, but to Ariel the chain was more than a piece of jewelry. It was the only link with her past. She couldn’t remember ever having a family of her own, just a handful of foster homes before her steadily worsening behavior earned her a place in the state school for almost juvenile delinquents four years before. Her family had consisted of a long line of social workers, many of them being reassigned almost before she learned their names. Rebecca had been the last in that long line. They’d been working together for almost two years.
“I was there when you came into the system. You were wearing that necklace and wouldn’t let anyone take it away from you without throwing a fit. We had to wait until you fell asleep before we took it away. It's been in safekeeping in your file with a note that it be returned to you on your eighteenth birthday when you’ll be your own woman."
Her own woman, a title she'd been aching to attain ever since she could remember. "Thanks. I didn’t think it was you that night. I just thought it was a grown up going to take Mama’s necklace. This is the only thing I have of my mother. It's not much, but I know there's a link between this necklace and my family."
She traced the chain as it wound around and around in circles on the worn black velvet lining. She didn’t remember her mother, but she vividly recalled the day she'd worn the necklace for the first and last time. The day her life changed forever.
Brushing the pad of her index finger back and forth across the black velvet, she studied the rest of the box. She didn't remember it specifically, but there was a familiarity to it. Like maybe she'd played with it in the distant past.
The lining along the left side of the box had let go. Had someone taken the box apart? Or was time taking its toll on the antique jewelry box?
Working one burgundy-tipped fingernail into the gap, she pried the velvet free from the leather. Tilting the box, she spilled the necklace on the table beside her dinner plate. The medium rare ribeye steak and baked sweet potato were forgotten in favor of the mystery. Maybe, just maybe, there was a clue to her past hidden away under the fabric. Or maybe a key to a safety deposit box with a million dollars in it. Or a letter from her mother explaining why she'd been left in the park all those years before.
Pinching the velvet, she slowly, carefully lifted the fabric. There was indeed something trapped between leather and velvet. A paper that was slightly smaller than the box shifted as she manipulated the fabric away from the box.
"Ariel? What is it?"
"I'm not sure."
Using fingernails that were barely within school standards, she grasped the paper between two tips and pulled it from its hiding place. After replacing the necklace in its velvet bed, she snapped the box closed. No need to advertise she now had possession of a pretty piece of jewelry. The necklace was her heritage, the only link to a family she'd never known and probably never would.
Turning the picture over, she held it so they could both study it. "It's a picture," Rebecca murmured, "an old photograph."
"It's the front porch of a house. There's a woman sitting on the steps. She kinda looks like me, don't you think?"
Ariel studied the picture. It was an old black and white photograph on brittle paper, aged yellow by time. Turning the rectangle over, she found writing. "Borden Street, Goldsboro," she deciphered. The words were in a fancy cursive, the ink faded to gray by time.
Studying the photo, she focused on the woman. She sat at the top of a series of five steps. Her knees were demurely held together and angled to the left, her skirt pulled down so only a few inches of leg above the ankle strap of her heavy black leather shoes. She figured the picture was from the late 1940s, maybe 1950.
The woman's face was familiar. Very familiar. Smiling, Ariel realized she had seen those eyes before, the strong stubborn jaw and feathery eyebrows. She saw them every time she looked in a mirror. This woman could be her twin. The heart-shaped face, pointy chin, and wide, curious eyes were identical to her own.
"She does look like you. Maybe she's your grandmother." Rebecca watched without comment as Ariel replaced the picture back into its hiding place. After securing the necklace in the box, she slipped the leather box into her oversized purse. With one hand, she worked the jewelry case to the bottom of the bag. She pushed it underneath her wallet, the small notebook of lists she made on a daily basis then never had time to finish, and the cap of her uniform from Taco-Taco where she worked as a shift leader when she wasn't in school.
"Thank you, Rebecca. It's the best present I've ever been given."
The social worker nodded, as Ariel blinked back the tears that threatened. Ariel knew she had grown to be a tough girl. She was slow to make friends, guarding her emotions like a miser with money. She never showed vulnerability and any form of sentimentality sent her running for the hills. Rebecca kindly said nothing and looked away until she swallowed and cleared her throat.
"So, Miss Ariel, what are you plans? You have your GED and your entire life ahead of you. Are you moving in with John and climbing the Taco-Taco ladder of big business success?"
Ariel blinked back new tears. A few more days and she'd be free. No more training school with teachers, counselors, and house parents telling her what to do and when and how to do it. No more answering to anyone but herself. Her future lay before her, and she didn't have a clue what to do with it.
Her shoulders tightened at the mention of John. John Robards was a man she would never see again if at all possible. Whipcord lean and only a few inches taller than her five-foot-four, he wasn’t a big man but threw one helluva punch. His mud brown eyes were rarely warm, instead they were muddy icicles as he barked out orders at work or his plans for their future on the rare occasion they were alone together. His hair was that nondescript shade between brown and blonde, already inching back from his forehead, just like his father’s and grandfather’s before him.
Nondescript and violent were the only way Ariel could sum John up. She refused to spend her life fearing any man. With two fingers, she traced the receding puffiness around her left eye, then the split lower lip he'd left her with just the day before. He hadn't taken the news she was leaving very well. He'd vowed to make her stay with him, ope
n up to him, and love him one way or another.
When words hadn't swayed her, he'd reached out in frustration. His fist cuffing her across the cheeks, first one way then the other cemented her wishy-washy decision into stone. Breaking up with him was the right thing to do. Hopefully she'd never see him again after her last work shift tomorrow night.
"I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but John is definitely out of the picture." She hadn't told Rebecca about her last encounter with the twenty-four-year-old man who'd singled her out for his attentions during her first week of working at Taco-Taco. He'd pursued her though she'd given him no reason to think she was interested. Hopefully by disappearing he would give up and find a new hobby, like boxing in a ring with opponents his own size, instead of using his latest girlfriend as a punching bag.
Staring down at the table, the porch and the woman flashed through her mind's eye. "Maybe I'll try Goldsboro. See if the house is still standing on Borden Street. There might be a tie between this picture and my family. At least I won't be in Asheville."
"But your job? And John?"
"Fast food places are always looking for hard workers. Finding a job shouldn't be a problem. After all, haven’t you been telling me for two years that hard work will get me anywhere I want to go in life?"
Ariel didn't want to discuss the future. It was out there, but like Scarlett O’Hara, another Southern lady who knew about hard work and disappointment, she would face it tomorrow. At eighteen, she had limited experience and virtually no training for any career. "I'd better get back to school. I need to do some packing and work on my resume before lights out. You know how Mrs. Franklin is about curfew. I'd hate to get demerits for being late my last week."
While Rebecca paid the bill, Ariel's hand drifted to the bottom of her oversized quilted bag and touched the antique leather case. Goldsboro felt right. In the morning, she'd call the bus station about a bus heading east.
Heat and humidity slammed into her like a wall as she stepped off the tired Trailways bus. Stepping away from the door, Ariel reached for the sky, then bent and brushed her palms against the dusty concrete parking lot. Her back, her whole body was stiff and sore from a dozen hours in the same seat as she traveled across North Carolina. She closed her ears to the greetings called and returned by those around her. People who had family or friends waiting for their arrival.
Taking a deep breath, she wrinkled her nose as the combination of dusty, body odor, diesel fuel wrapped around her. She picked up her purple nylon duffle bag and slung it over the same shoulder as her huge purse. Staggering a few steps, she shifted the bags to a more comfortable position, distributing the weight of the two bags more evenly. Carrying everything she owned on her back, she followed an elderly couple into the glass walled bus station. In contrast to the parking lot, the building was ice cold.
At the ticket counter, she waited patiently as those in front of her completed their business. Finally, she stood at the head of the line and the bored clerk focused his attention on her. "Can I help you?
"How do I get to Borden Street?"
Hitching the duffle bag higher on her shoulder, she prayed it wasn't too far away. The bags were heavy and it was hot. Too hot to be doing much walking, but she didn't have a choice. Five hundred dollars' worth of traveler's checks until she received a paycheck from an as yet obtained job didn't allow her to splurge on anything, much less a cab ride across town.
"Take a right out this door to the corner," the clerk waved over his shoulder, "take a left. Borden is four blocks over."
"You want a cab, honey?" An older black lady wearing a tent dress and baseball cap laid her romance novel against her ample chest. Was she taking a poll or was she the cab driver?
"No, thanks, I’ll walk."
With a deep sigh, Ariel pushed open the door and stepped into the humid late June heat. Putting one foot in front of another she turned at the corner and started down Oak Street. She crossed six sets of railroad tracks of the Goldsboro train yard. By the time she reached the corner of Oak and Borden, sweat rolled from the crown of her head, down her cheeks to drip off her chin. Peeling her T-shirt from her chest and stomach, she then tried wiping her arm across her forehead. It was like wiping at a puddle with a towel in the middle of a downpour.
She paused at the corner, wishing the photograph had a specific address. Turning right, she found factories and warehouses. Not a house in sight. Doing an about-face, she started south. She maintained a steady pace, stretching out her stride to work out the kinks. As she walked, she studied the houses on both sides of the street.
Her pace slowed as the humidity sucked what energy she'd started with straight through the soles of her shoes. The sidewalk ahead shimmered from the heat rising from the concrete surface. Six blocks later, she stopped. She was running out of large old houses with wide front porches.
On the corner across the street a ten-foot tall hedge hid the house from the street. At the corner was an opening in the solid green leafy wall. She couldn't see anything of the house from where she stood. She hurried to cross the street between cars that steadily moved down the street, heading home after a long, hot workday. Stepping up the three cement steps that connected the sidewalk to the front yard, she stepped through the hedge and froze. She'd found the right porch.
The house squatted on a slight rise, a menacing behemoth. It rose three stories tall, the pre-Victorian design unchanged over the last hundred and fifty years. The yellow paint was peeling with bare wood exposed in places. Shutters faded from black to pale ash by years of abuse by the sun framed most of the windows facing the street. Some of the slats were missing and others were shifted, hanging crooked.
Outlined in blood from the setting sun behind it, its hulking shadow engulfed her as she approached. A chill shivered through her. This was the porch from the picture. After hours of staring at the photo during the last three days, this porch was burned into her memory. It was her only clue to finding the family she'd given up on ever locating.
She didn't bother to check her appearance in the four-inch mirror from her purse. She knew what she'd see. Her blue-violet eyes were probably bloodshot from squinting all day. She'd lost her sunglasses the day before in a farewell poker game the girls had put together. Her curly auburn hair had been blown straight by the hot wind streaming through the open windows on the bus. Only after the temperature inside the bus had reached ninety-five degrees had the driver discovered the air conditioner was not working. The sirocco wind streaming through the eight-inch openings of each window saved them from cooking alive. It didn't matter though. She wasn't out to impress anyone with her appearance. She needed information. Hopefully whoever lived in this neglected yellow house could provide it for her.
Dropping her duffle bag to the sidewalk, she arched her back. Her entire body screamed in pain from the heat and the heavy bags she'd been toting. An icy chill raced from the base of her neck down her spine, a warning to pay attention. Something was about to happen. She'd had premonitions before, but could never tell if what was to come would be good or bad. She was experienced enough with the feeling to know when to keep her eyes open. A prickle of expectancy settled at the base of her neck.
Since there was no sidewalk crossing the yard, she picked her way through the brown, crunchy weeds that fought for survival in the dry, sandy soil. It had been years since anyone had attempted any yard work beyond keeping the weeds under control.
At the bottom of the five shallow steps that led to the porch, she hesitated, appraising her surroundings with an analytical eye. In an instant, her heart overruled her head and she fell in love.
She'd always dreamed of living in an old house. Seeing one that had been neglected sent her into daydreams about the changes she would make.
If this were her house, she would make some serious changes to include new paint, new trim, new shutters. The lawn would be thick, lush and green with a brick or stone walk curving from the porch steps to the city maintained sidewalk. Red and white r
oses would trail up the five columns that supported the porch that wrapped around the right side of the house.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to recall the pep talk she'd given herself during the long, hot trip from Asheville. Buck up and move forward. She was only a few steps away from possibly finding a lead to her family and her courage was waning. Letting go of the trepidation that filled her, she climbed the swayback, cracked wooden steps, dodging the ankle-swallowing hole in the second one. In her mind's eye, the bare boards of the porch were covered in fresh gray paint, the leaves swept away, and there were a couple of rocking chairs by the front door with a white wooden swing on squeaky chains in the corner.
Baskets of ferns hanging along the front edge of the porch would convert this into the perfect spot to enjoy iced tea as she discussed the day's events. Who would she talk with? She was alone in the world. Alone and broke and unemployed.
Crossing the six-foot wide porch to the front door, she was surprised the windows were in perfect repair. Lacy curtains neatly framed each one. They appeared freshly washed, starched and ironed. Raising a hand to shoulder height, she froze. A strange
Before her eyes, against the solid black surface of the wooden door, a group of men with guns, axes, and lanterns were crowded onto this very porch. They were shouting and pounding on the door. Big, angry men, full of hate. The anger was so hot and fiery, Ariel shivered in reaction.
Her hand fell to her thigh. The slap of palm against her leg through the khakis dissolved the vision. She again was staring at the old wooden door with bubbled, cracking black paint peeling in strips. She lifted her hand and again she hesitated.
She didn't know what to say. How did she ask for answers when she didn’t understand the questions? Maybe she should find a place to spend the night and come back in the morning. Hopefully, there was someplace affordable within walking distance. But she didn't know where to begin looking. She had to knock on the door if only to ask for directions to a motel.
Magic and Shadows: A Collection of YA Fantasy and Paranormal Romances Page 113