Return to Seven Sisters

by M. L. Bullock

  Chapter Four—Carrie Jo

  Seven Sisters had never looked more forlorn than it did this morning when I pulled up as the new owner of the property. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why—the columns were perfectly painted and matched to the original wood. The massive oaks and magnolias were no longer strangling the old house. You could almost believe that the place was new, or at least newly remodeled. But that strange melancholy feeling…yeah, I couldn’t shake it. And even more than that, when Ashland and I left before, we’d presumably exorcised all the unwanted ghosts and helped the others find their way to their peaceful ends. But now I knew that others stirred here.

  At least these aren’t Ashland’s dead relatives.

  Or mine.

  “Hmm…” I said to myself as I put the car in park. I leaned forward in the seat and tapped the leather steering wheel lightly. My radar was going off big time this morning.

  Ashland and I did not want to waste any time getting started on the small projects we’d talked about last night. I still could not believe that the city would allow us to take ownership again, and how he managed the finances with Austin Simmons was just more than my brain could handle. I felt so grateful—I knew Momma must be looking out for me because that would be the only way this could happen.

  The massive magnolia tree had scattered hard seedpods all over the ground, and I kicked one away as I headed to the front door. No sense in being shy about it. Might as well walk in like I owned the place. After all, I did.

  I’d spotted Austin’s silver vehicle in the driveway. There were a few other cars I didn’t recognize, but I assumed they were part of the landscaping crew that someone mentioned would be here today. Good thing, too, because the seedpods were a mess. I breathed in the scent of magnolias and closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the sunshine and peace.

  Austin didn’t allow me to linger too long—he was standing in the doorway and waving me inside as if I were a naughty child who refused to come in for supper. What was his hurry?

  I suddenly was not sure I wanted to do this. I felt a twinge of guilt. Probably because Ashland had no idea what happened to me yesterday and what I planned to do today. I told myself I was doing the grown-up thing—I didn’t want to give him a reason to worry about me. I’d given him plenty of those in recent weeks.

  “Hey, Austin. I’m not late, am I?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  I thought perhaps I should thank him, so I did as I walked back up the steps of Seven Sisters. Nope, nothing happened. No dreams, no weird Max telling me to get out.

  “Think nothing of it, Carrie Jo. I’m yours to command.”

  I laughed nervously. Why did hearing that make me so uncomfortable? I was beginning to think I would never get over my leeriness of him. Was it too much to ask, Carrie Jo, to give the guy a chance?

  “No time like the present.” We walked inside and into the Blue Room, and once again I allowed the beauty of the old plantation to wash over me. So many memories in this place. My memories. We’d lost people here, but we found a few things too.

  “We’re doing this in this room, right?”

  “I think that’s a great idea since you’ve already had an experience in here. I suspect this room has some type of special meaning for you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about both of those. Is that important?” I was curious to know more about the whole dream walking thing. I wanted to hear some facts; maybe that would calm my nerves.

  “I know you feel nervous, Carrie Jo. That’s natural. But you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re stronger than you know. In fact, I suspect you have more than just this gift in you, but we won’t talk about that right now. Let’s get our heads together and dream walk.”

  “Yes, please. Let’s focus on the now.”

  He laughed softly, and the sound blended perfectly with the sunlight that filtered through the open windows of the Blue Room. I absently wondered who opened them but didn’t think much more about it. It had to have been Austin, right?

  “So how do we start?”

  “It’s not an exact science. Every dream walker is a little different. I’m not sure how things will go for you, so I’m going to show you my technique. The trick is to dream but to do so in a cognitive manner. For most people, dreams can be a way for the subconscious to communicate with us, but dream catchers and dream walkers are not restricted to those types of dreams. We can step into the past, the future and even alternate presents.”

  I shook my head. “Okay, you’re blowing my mind here.”

  “Sorry. Well, back to me, then. When I’m about to enter a dream, I see things begin to fracture, like I’m looking at them behind a wall of ice. And then the ice melts and I can see clearly. That experience is a little different when I actually dream walk. Have you noticed the difference between the two experiences? Dream dreaming and dream walking?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did notice a difference. When I dream, it’s kind of like looking at a sepia picture. Everything is honey-colored, at least in the beginning. And then as the dream progresses the pictures brighten and everything is just like normal. Well, for the most part. Yesterday was a little different from that experience. The transition was almost nonexistent, but I felt like the dream really engaged…like I triggered something when I walked in the house. I don’t know how I could have avoided that.”

  “You can. You’ll just have to be aware of those…well, portals for lack of a better word. Be aware of them and go around them when it isn’t convenient to dream walk.”

  “Thanks for teaching me. I’m very interested in learning more about dreaming, and I think this will help me in a lot of ways.” And it will help my son.

  “It can be lonely, I know that. But I promise you, you are not the only dreamer out there. Lots of people dream. They just don’t remember the experience, or they don’t feel comfortable sharing it.”

  I nodded and clapped my hands lightly and then rubbed them together as if we were about to dig in an herb garden. “Well, how do we get started? What do I do?”

  He smiled at my enthusiasm. “Start by picking an object in this room. Something you enjoy looking at.”

  “One last question. Is this dangerous?”

  “It can be. But if you’re already dream walking, then you aren’t doing yourself any favors by not training yourself. It’s probably not going to just go away.”

  “What can happen that’s dangerous? Can I get stuck in the past?” I said with a laugh.

  “Yes, you can. And other things can happen too. It’s crucial that you don’t interact with the people around you. Dream walking brings you closer to the subject. Unlike a dream where you just observe, often as the person, dream walking puts you in the picture. You have to avoid detection. It’s almost like you’re the ghost.” His voice was serious and deep.

  I shuddered like a rabbit ran over my grave. “I see.”

  “It’s rare that anything like that does happen, but if you can, avoid passing mirrors when you dream walk and don’t speak. Don’t speak at all. Spiritually sensitive people can hear you, and that will bring unintended results.”

  “What does that mean?” I squinted up at him. I was getting a headache now.

  “Changing the past is easier than you think—and much more dangerous. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  I cut my eyes at him and said, “Must you always be so cryptic? I think that’s the thing I like the least about you.”

  “And I think the thing I like the least about you is how you’re always comparing me to someone I don’t know and don’t remember.” That was a fair statement—one I couldn’t argue with. “It’s up to you. If you want to do this, we will do this. If you want to wait, we can wait. I just want to help you.”

  “Is this going to be like hypnosis? I’m not a very good candidate for that.”

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. “No. It’s not like that. Well, maybe a little. N
ow, pick an object. Time is getting away from us.”

  I glanced around and focused on one of the small ceramic dogs that perched proudly in the alcove. “How about him?”

  “Sure, whatever you like. Focus on that object. Quiet your mind and imagine yourself holding it. Tell me how it was made, maybe who touched it last. I want you to think of nothing but that object.”

  I stared at the thing for a full minute but couldn’t shake the consciousness that Austin was staring at me. Without looking at him I said, “You’re not helping.”

  I didn’t look, but I could feel him smile. “Okay. Tell me about that puppy. No, don’t look at me. Explain to me why you like it so much. Think about the puppy.”

  I shrugged awkwardly. “I think it’s probably my favorite ceramic figurine in the house. He’s permanently perched in a happy position. He looks like he’s going to pounce at any moment, and I swear he has a smile on his face. When I discovered this little guy during acquisitions, I just knew he belonged here. I’m not sure about the breed, but the paperwork described him as a terrier of some type. If he were real, he would probably weigh around three pounds. He would be tiny—a lap dog. You know, come to think of it, he reminds me of my own puppy. I didn’t have him long.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Strangely enough, I got lost in talking about that dog. It was the weirdest thing. One minute I was in the room talking to Austin, and the next I was just hovering there, kind of in the air, still staring at the dog. As if I were a ghost myself. Maybe that’s what dreaming was all about. Maybe that’s what it was. Who knew? Maybe ghosts were just people who dreamed!

  And then Austin was calmly talking to me again.

  “Carrie Jo, I have to do something. Don’t be alarmed. Stay focused on the dog.”

  “What is it?” I didn’t feel any apprehension, but I was curious.

  “I have to put my arms around you.”

  I felt the wind blow briefly, as if someone had opened the French doors or the back door. The temperature changed, subtly at first, and then it was cool—very cool, as if we had shifted seasons. I felt Austin’s embrace, but then I was alone.

  Alone in the Blue Room. The carpet felt spongy underneath me—this was a different carpet. And the time was different. It was not morning but late in the afternoon. And Austin was gone. I panicked for a second or two.

  “Austin? Where are you?” I didn’t see him, but I heard him quite plainly, as if he’d spoken into my ear.

  “I’m here. I’m close. Walk, Carrie Jo.”

  I stepped outside the room and began to walk down the hall.

  Chapter Five—Lafonda

  I lingered outside the men’s parlor, covertly listening as Jonatan rehearsed his birthday speech with Max. I could hardly believe the progress he was making. Despite my personal dislike for the man, Max proved to be a competent and patient teacher. His voice was warm and encouraging as he corrected Jonatan, and I smiled as my brother parroted Max’s words perfectly, down to his southern inflection. No one would ever believe Jonatan hailed from Spain, not if they heard him talk like that.

  But what of me? I had no such teacher and made no effort to hide who I was—in fact, at times I reveled in the differences between myself and these local ladies.

  I continued to spy on my brother. If nothing else, Jonatan was a master at mimicry, a skill that had carried him through life thus far. Why was I so doubtful now? Why couldn’t I shake the feeling that Mama’s grand plans to bring Jonatan out into society in such extravagant fashion would collapse in on us? But she wouldn’t listen to reason. She’d planned Jonatan’s birthday party down to the letter and invited half the county to attend. The RSVPs came sailing in, and droves of curious locals would be here. With each daily mail delivery, my heart sank deeper into my chest.

  Much to my chagrin, Mama had rented peacocks specifically for the birthday celebration. The birds would stroll the grounds supposedly to entertain the guests, but we all knew they were merely an extension of Mama’s own persona. I said as much, but she waved me away while arguing with Papa over the ever-increasing expense of this event. I didn’t bother to point out that my own birthday had been two months ago and besides a kiss on the forehead from Papa, I hadn’t received even a small token of commemoration from anyone else. To be fair, Papa was willing to indulge me with whatever delighted my heart, but that wasn’t the point. Jonatan was thrilled to hear about the tasty sugared confections that would be on display in his honor. To finish the night, Seven Sisters would host a fireworks display fit for a king.

  If Mama didn’t succeed in burning down the house or the surrounding fields, perhaps we would survive this unscathed. At least Jonatan was doing his best. Onward we Delarosas plodded along, obeying Mama’s instructions to the letter. She would not be persuaded to change her lavish plans, and Papa would not change his mind concerning Jonatan’s career.

  In the interest of family peace, I gave up the fight and decided that Fate would have her way regardless of my concerns. Yet, in the wee hours of the morning when the air was still and cool and the house was quiet, I couldn’t shake the awful premonition that disaster lay just over the next horizon. The weeks passed by quickly, and I’d endured more than my share of dress fittings and American deportment lessons from my mother and her newest friend, Anne Overstreet.

  At last, the night arrived. My hair was curled and arranged—Lettie managed to burn my skin only twice, and the whole production had taken her hours. I was already tired. Mama’s newest addition to the house staff was never in a hurry. I sighed when it was complete; I now smelled of sweat and burned hair, and I was sure she’d singed half of it. Oh well, I was quite sure no one would notice me anyway. All eyes would be on my beautiful brother.

  As the guests began to arrive at Seven Sisters, I delayed my hostess duties as long as possible. I ignored Mama’s calls and Lettie’s repeated coughs and throat clearings. I’d been spending a great deal of time in the upstairs study recently, and Papa had willingly relinquished the room to me, preferring instead the men’s parlor downstairs. There was another study across from the Blue Room, but it had a terrible draft and a horrible uncomfortableness. An uncomfortableness no one spoke about but quietly acknowledged by ignoring that room altogether. Except for Max. I often passed by the room and found him searching through the books for something to read.

  No, I much preferred my quiet hideaway above the daily madness of the household below. The walls were lined with well-built bookshelves, and I had inherited the house’s collection of books. Although some were French titles that I could not read well, I liked having them. Possessing the leather-bound tomes made me feel like the world was at my fingertips, and I relished that.

  I had recently discovered a dust-covered book secreted behind a pair of works by Tacitus, but unfortunately it was written in Latin. I was intensely curious about it; according to the diagrams and illustrations inside, the book was on the subject of human anatomy. I had never seen such a book—to see a man’s body in all its scientific glory laid bare before me was a shocking yet intriguing experience.

  I blushed recalling yesterday when Max had intruded on my sanctuary, catching me furiously flipping through the pages as I chewed on a ragged fingernail. I quickly slammed the book shut but not before my brother’s companion smiled broadly at my surprise. To my great relief, Max said nothing inappropriate, but it was impossible to avoid his amused expression. I attempted to change the subject, and we did not speak of it. But before he left me, his fingers lingered across the title of the book and he cast those sky-blue eyes on me. He had the look of a hungry man—or a hungry dog. Despite his obvious attraction to me, I could not reciprocate those feelings. I wasn’t interested in becoming Max’s wife. I was certain Lettie would have happily accepted his smiles and brazen approaches, but I was not Lettie. And I was quite sure that his interest in me was merely superficial. I was not ignorant concerning the ways of the world; there were many men in Max’s position who would like nothing mor
e than to improve themselves by marrying upwards. According to the local newspaper, that appeared to be a new trend here in Mobile. Upstarts marrying heiresses and the like. The recent marriage of Beatrice Pennington to a nobody like Bradley Cummings had sent shock waves through the hallowed halls of debutantes across the county. At least that was what Miss Anne and Mama whispered to one another. But who did Mama think we were if not upstarts?

  Yes, I knew what Max was all about, even if he didn’t appreciate my intuition. Who better to target than the only—supposedly lonely—daughter of a wealthy businessman?

  It was Max who found me now, and fortunately I was not thumbing through anatomy books. And at least this time, he knocked politely on the casing of the open door. “Mrs. Delarosa asked me to retrieve you.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with my brother?”

  “Yes, I should be. But here I am, fetching you.” Max smirked without any humor. He wore one of my brother’s hand-me-down jackets; the cuffs were frayed and it fit him poorly, but some girl with a less careful eye would likely find him attractive in it.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t keep everyone waiting.” I had every intention of flouncing past him, but he offered his arm and I could not politely refuse it. We didn’t talk as we walked down the polished hallway together. Lettie stared daggers at me, but Max ignored her, murmuring his compliments to me. My mind was focused on the crowd that I heard downstairs.

  How many people had Mama invited to this birthday party? A hundred? Two hundred?

  Sometimes she was impossible. Max released me and stood behind me on the staircase. At least he didn’t presume to walk beside me. I held my breath as I walked down, and I was sure the entire world could hear my heels clacking on the creaky wooden staircase. Papa greeted me first—he looked quite handsome in his black jacket and neat white shirt. He’d taken the time to carefully comb his thick black mustache, and he smelled of hair oil, expensive whiskey and cigars. Was there ever a handsomer man than my Papa?