She let the feelings carry her and did little more than aim her camera and shoot. She wasn’t afraid; she didn’t feel much of anything at all. There was no sense of terror even though she could barely see where she was walking (and the squishiness under her feet told her she had stepped on more than one dead animal) and she was alone.
Finally, when she reached the back of the house, she stopped in what had more than likely been Permelia and James’ room. It was slightly larger than the others, though smaller than it once was since part of it had been sectioned off to make a modern bathroom with a dated pink bathtub and sink. The middle of the floor had rotted through, revealing a large gaping hole that looked down into the tavern.
It would’ve been noisy in this room. Nobody could’ve slept as long as customers were down below. Then again, it might have been nice to lie there in bed and listen to the live music or the laughter. Nice, or maybe lonesome. Strange to think whoever was in this room could’ve heard whatever was going on below but the people down below wouldn’t have heard any noises above them. Living apart from the world in general like that was surreal. Taryn felt like she did that every day.
Taryn stood still and closed her eyes, letting the atmosphere of the room cloak her.
For a brief moment she had an image of a woman with dark hair lying on a four poster bed, the thick covers brought up to her chin as she gazed at flickering candlelight making crazy patterns on her wall. She was new here, only just arrived the day before. She was married but didn’t know her husband. They’d only just met. Homesick, she missed her family and house and friends. She missed the movement and sounds of the city, the familiarity of her surroundings. Her husband seemed kind, but they hadn’t known what to say to one another on the ride. He’d left her alone this evening while he tended the tavern. She’d stayed here, in their bedroom, and written a letter to her family at the small desk. She’d told them everything was fine, that it was a lovely place, and that she was happy. Then she’d slid down to the floor and cried; cried loudly since with the ruckus below nobody could hear her and it didn’t matter. Now she was in bed, wearing a gown from her trousseau, and listening to the sounds. So many people down there, yet she was more alone than she’d ever been in her life.
Taryn jumped, startled. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination making her see and feel what she was sensing or something else, but it felt real. She had a strong sense of affection for Permelia in that instant, despite the fact she knew Permelia had eventually gone on to become a lively hostess who was adored by her husband (by accounts anyway) and an astute businesswoman who hadn’t even returned to Boston once he passed away.
She took her last two pictures in the room and then left. Before starting back down the stairs, however, she paused at the first room at the top. Something was pulling at her, beckoning her to return to it.
It was the smallest of the rooms. She’d only spent a minute in it earlier, maybe less. It was dark and stuffy. A dead bird was in the middle, its feathers peppering the floor, its glassy eyes staring at her. That wasn’t what caught her interest, though. Even with her camera lowered she could see the shapes emerging on the wall before her. First dim, almost transparent, and then gradually growing stronger and stronger until, like watermarks, they jumped out and stained the floral wallpaper. Taryn’s hand shot to her mouth as she gasped first and then moaned. The dark substance painting the handprints before her was blood.
I was getting worried.” Matt was on the verge of whining. She could hear it in his tone, but he was also truly worried. She could hear that as well.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she scoffed. Balancing her phone against her neck she used her key to unlock her door and hold her six pack of Cokes without dropping her camera bag. She was just good like that. “I’ve just had a lot of things going on.”
With nothing that could be called “grace” Taryn staggered into her room and managed to toss the carton on the bed before it landed in the floor, spewing soda everywhere. The grocery bag containing chips, chocolate chip cookies, Pop Tarts, and bananas (you know, to balance everything out) slipped neatly from her other arm and landed on the floor with a “splat.” “Damn it!” she muttered.
“What? Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” she sighed as she dropped down onto the bed and rested her feet against the soda carton. “I’m just throwing things around my room.”
“Oh, okay. So what’s going on? Why have you been so busy?”
“Well, for starters I met with a guy who told me all about the tavern and what it used to be like. That was great. And I’ve been doing a lot of painting, of course. Talking to my landlady. My client asked me to meet him and his friends at a bar tonight. I might go. So a lot of things.”
“Your client? You mean the guy?” He didn’t do a good job of hiding the blatant curiosity, although she could tell he tried.
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m not interested in him in that way. He’s too young for me,” she soothed him. “You’re still my number one guy.”
“And we’re still getting married in ten years if we’re both still single, right?” Matt prodded.
“Right. When we’re ‘old and decrepit’ as I remember us saying. Of course, we were ten at the time so forty felt a long ways off back then.”
“We could always do it now,” Matt ventured with a laugh. “Why wait?”
A warning bell dinged inside Taryn’s head but she tried to push it away. “Because I don’t have the money for a dress yet. You have to give me some time.”
“Anything new on the house front?” He wasn’t always the most perceptive of souls, but he usually knew when to change the subject.
“Actually, yes there is.” Turning on her laptop, she waited for it to boot up while she talked. “I have some names I’d like you to trace. I know you have a lot going on, but you’re very good at this sort of thing and it would help me out.”
“Sure, I can try. Who are they?”
“Long lost relatives of the woman who used to own the tavern. I have no idea if they had any kids or not but I can give you names and towns and a general date range. You’ll have to go from there on your own,” she apologized.
“No problem. I’ve started with less.” Although Matt’s field was engineering, he was also a whiz on the computer and could research just about anything. She often went to him when she either didn’t have time to do it on her own or hit a roadblock. He missed his calling as a private investigator.
“I’m anxious to get in touch with them, see if they have any more information besides what I’ve gathered here. It might be a dead end, but you never know.”
“Wow, you’re really getting into this project aren’t you?” Matt sounded surprised. She’d barely said a word about her previous two jobs. She’d been in and out in a flash with the projects making no perceptible impact on her. They were, in her own words, “just jobs.”
“Yeah, it’s interesting. I mean, not just the tavern itself although the history is pretty fascinating when you think about that time period, but with Permelia. It’s obvious she wants me to help her save it but I haven’t been able to piece anything together yet. And besides, I feel so sorry for her. She came here without knowing anyone, was all alone, started building a life, and then lost her husband and was then really all alone. It must have been a struggle for her. I can’t stop thinking about her–how she felt, what she thought, if she was scared or lonely…” She stopped because she was rambling and it embarrassed her.
“Taryn,” Matt began gently, “you know that’s over, right? Permelia is dead and has been for a long time. You’re not really helping her. She’s not here anymore.”
“Well, I know that,” Taryn almost snapped but thought better of it. “But something of her is here. Leftover energy or a hologram of sorts. She’s not gone completely. And this is my job. This is what I do. I see the past.”
“You paint the past,” he corrected. “That’s different. You don’t have to become so involved.�
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“But I–“
“Are you sleeping well?” he interrupted. “Are you eating okay? Don’t get so involved with this that it takes over. This isn’t your time period, it’s not your life. You don’t have to fix this.”
“I can’t just do nothing. What if this is my life? What if this is, like, my calling? And I think she needs me.”
“Taryn, Permelia lived a long time ago. She apparently had a happy life and it didn’t end badly. She died from regular old-age health problems. People liked her. She ran a business. She didn’t have a life full of tragedy.”
“Her husband died and left her a widow, all alone in the world,” Taryn spoke softly, staring at the hooked rug on the hardwood floor. “Wasn’t that enough tragedy?”
Matt swore under his breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Of course it was a tragedy. People did die young in those days, though. It happened.”
“He didn’t die from a health problem; it was an accident. And people dying young doesn’t make it any less sad or important to her, Matt.” This time Taryn did snap. “It doesn’t matter how often it happens. When it’s you it’s different.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Is this about Andrew? Do you feel close to her because of Andrew?” There was a softness in his voice only Matt could carry and it struck a nerve in her. She could feel the tears forming in her eyes and nose before she could stop them.
“No,” she whispered.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Andrew waking up in the morning, tickling her on the neck. Andrew making the two of them a spaghetti picnic under the oak tree with the Spanish moss in southern Georgia. Andrew studying his blueprints, a pencil tucked behind his ear and his forehead creased in concentration. She and Andrew running to the car in the pouring rain, getting soaked because they’d forgotten their umbrellas, and then laughing when they reached it and realizing they’d left their windows down.
She didn’t feel like she was crying, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling. “No. It’s fine. I just feel so bad for her. She was by herself. She didn’t know what to do or where to go. She had a business to run, a house to keep up…”
“And she did it well,” Matt assured her. “She did it alone, but she managed it. And did a very good job. You’ve done wonderfully.”
Embarrassed at her display of emotions, Taryn wiped her eyes and brought up her email. “I have the names if you have something to write them down with.
“Sure. Go ahead and give them to me and I’ll see what I can do…”
Chapter 12
The pictures uploaded steadily, one image painstakingly unfolding at a time. The first few dozen were of the exterior. She wasn’t as concerned with these, since in her limited experience they hadn’t proved as remarkable as the interior shots. While they were uploading she wandered around her room, tidying up and organizing her things. She did turn into a slob when she traveled, despite the fact she was, by nature, fastidiously clean and orderly at home. Of course, a lot of her stuff was in storage and she was rarely home anymore so there wasn’t a whole lot to mess up or time to mess it up in.
Her clothes were her biggest problem, and her biggest weakness. She just had so darn many of them. She loved her skirts, jackets, cotton dresses, western-style shirts, and jeans. And cowboy boots. You could never have too many of those. After Andrew died she’d first gone through a period in which she wanted to either wear his clothes or only wear clothes she remembered him liking or commenting on. It made her feel more connected to him. She hadn’t cut her hair for the longest time for the same reason–she couldn’t stand letting go of growth that had known him. Later, she did a 180 and couldn’t stand to wear anything she associated with him. That, of course, meant she’d needed to buy a whole new wardrobe.
That part wasn’t so bad.
A beep from the bed alerted her the uploads were finished. The room was in reasonably good shape so she scooted back over to the bed and plopped down on the comfortable duvet and stretched out, ready to be immersed in her own photography for the foreseeable future.
As she suspected, the first dozen or so shots were unremarkable in nature. There were a few good ones, she liked to give herself a little bit of credit for that, but there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary in any of them.
And then she got to the interior…
Holy hell.
She should have been prepared for what she saw, but she wasn’t. She thought the simple act of wanting something to happen would take the shock value out of it.
It wasn’t.
Except for a few balls of light, she knew from her research some people might call them orbs but they could just as well be balls of dust, most of the rooms were unremarkable.
And then there were the others.
In the first picture she took in Permelia’s bedroom, the room was empty. A thin layer of dust covered the hardwood floors and there was a pile of what appeared to be rodent bones under the window. Old plastic blinds dangled above it, looking sad and dirty. Nothing new there. The room looked exactly as she’d seen it in person.
The next picture, however, showed something completely different. The image was very faint and almost looked like a double exposure if she’d been using print film, but there was no denying the fact that a large four-poster bed took up the middle of the floor. A burgundy spread was draped over it, the edges slightly dusting the floor. The spread was turned back, revealing light-colored sheets and two pillows. Propped against one of them was the dim outline of a woman. Her hair was long and dark and fell gently to her shoulders in a fluffy crown. She wore something white, that much was clear, and held her hands at either side of her, as though she’d just been disturbed and had quickly risen from a sleeping position. The most curious thing about her, other than her very appearance, was that she appeared to be staring straight at Taryn and Miss Dixie.
“I didn’t imagine her,” Taryn whispered to the room. “She was there.” Moreover, and this chilled her to the point she pulled her cardigan in a little tighter, Permelia (for she was certain that’s who it was) sensed her. Again. How was it possible when she’d been dead for more than one hundred years?
Delphina was sitting in a Cracker Barrel rocking chair on the front porch, a Danielle Steele book in her thin hands, when Taryn stepped outside. At the last minute she’d decided to take Daniel up on his offer. She might be a fifth wheel amongst him and his friends but it was a nice night, he had offered, and she figured she owed it to herself to try to have a little fun. She hadn’t seen or talked to Delphina recently, however, so she took the time to stop and say hello.
“Is it a good book?” she inquired, leaning up against the porch railing. “My grandmother used to read her.”
“Oh, it’s enjoyable,” Delphina laughed. “To tell you the truth, I read a lot of classics, a lot of important books and sometimes my brain just needs a rest. This here is my guilty pleasure. At least I know what I’m getting.”
“I hear that,” Taryn agreed. “It’s why I carry naughty romance novels around with me. Just to take my mind off things.”
“I’m so sorry about your aunt,” Delphina professed, clutching her chest, as though even thinking about death made her heart race. “I know we didn’t have much time to talk the other day. Were you very close to her?”
Taryn felt a wave of sadness well up in her and her eyes blurred a little. “We used to be, when I was a kid. I hadn’t seen her in years. That makes me feel worse.”
“Well, dear, life does get in the way sometimes. We think we have time and then we don’t. It’s nobody’s fault. I’m sure she didn’t fault you for it.”
But Taryn wasn’t sure what her Aunt Sarah had thought. They’d barely spoken in years and she was starting to discover, in dismay, she barely knew the woman.
“It kind of was my fault, though,” she decreed. “I always loved Sarah, idolized her. But my parents? They were…distant is the best word I can come up with. I star
ted living with my grandmother when I was pretty young. And then my grandmother died. I think I was always afraid that maybe the Sarah I had in my mind, the one I loved and looked up to, wouldn’t be the same to me as an adult as she was to me as a kid. And that–“
“Scared you?” Delphina finished for her. “I can understand. You didn’t want your illusions to be shattered.”
“Yes,” Taryn agreed with relief. “That image of her and how good she was to me, what a free spirit she was, how she accepted me…I’ve held onto those things over the years through some of my darkest times. And it was easy to hold onto as long as it was just in my mind. What if reality was different? I didn’t want to lose that.”
“Did you ever think she may have thought of you the same way?” Taryn must have looked startled because Delphina laughed a little before she continued. “Honey, we all create our own ghosts, our own illusions. Maybe she didn’t want to lose the one she had of a little girl who idolized her.”
Taryn nodded. Maybe that was true. Sometimes reality just wasn’t worth the risk.
The bar was a twenty-five minute drive from the B&B and therefore gave Taryn plenty of time to think. That wasn’t always a good thing.
To say she was nervous about hooking up with college kids and spending the evening at a bar was an understatement. She almost talked herself out of it and turned around twice. A Miranda Lambert CD she cranked up was supposed to give her something like girl power or courage but it was just making her feel silly and old. She may have only been thirty but she felt twice that. Maybe she needed to dye her hair again or something.
She could admit she didn’t make friends easily; never had. This was something her mother was faintly embarrassed of; that is, when she took the time to notice her.
On her sixteenth birthday, even after she’d been living with her grandmother for awhile, her mother’d had this “fabulous” idea of throwing her a “Sweet 16 Birthday Tea” at Belle Meade, the prominent country club there in Nashville her parents belonged to. It was old and southern and she’d never been real comfortable there, but it was pretty and she did appreciate the historical nature of it and the architecture. The only problem was, she didn’t have any friends to invite. Well, nobody but Matt. And her mother wanted it to be an “all girls” thing.
Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Page 11