Book Read Free

Past Presence

Page 13

by Nicole Bross


  “Amazing,” I keep repeating. “This is amazing.” The crates, unmarked on the outside, are filled with straw. When I touch a piece of it gingerly, it crumbles into dust in my hand.

  “What are the papers?” I ask Sheena, who is poring over them.

  “One of them is a tidal chart,” she says, running the beam of the flashlight over it.

  “Really?” I cover the lower half of my face with my hands, not believing our luck. “That means we can get a precise date on when this room was used.”

  “This one looks like names, but I’m not sure if they’re people or ships. This last one is definitely people. I recognize a bunch of the names. They’re all from town.” She lists off a few, and even I recognize a couple family names from my short time here.

  “Do you know how historically significant this is?” I say, enthralled. I can’t wait to dive into all the research and cataloging this is going to require. There are more papers in a manila folder, yellowed with age, on the table, but I won’t touch them until I have a pair of latex gloves to protect them from the oils in my hands. The entire room will need to be photographed in detail before I disturb anything.

  “Would’ve been nice to find a stash of eighty-year-old rum,” Sheena says. “It’s too bad all these crates are empty.”

  “This one isn’t,” Kellen says from the corner, where only a single crate sits on the floor. Sheena trains the light on it. He’s right—there are three bottles full of amber liquid lying on their side amongst the straw. The necks and corks are covered in thick, dark wax.

  “It’s not rum at all,” she says. “It’s whiskey.”

  “That makes sense if it’s coming from Canada,” I say. “Rum came mainly from the Caribbean and the south.” The bottles look well preserved, still full thanks to the wax preventing evaporation over time, and the labels, while yellowed with age, are still legible.

  I start making a mental list of all the things I need to learn to get started building a history of what went on in this room, beginning with who owned the inn during the Prohibition era. Whoever it was, they had to have been complicit in the smuggling. If only there was a personal diary included in the room’s contents, but that would be beyond the bounds of good fortune.

  “Okay,” I say finally, tearing my gaze away from the papers on the wall. I have a few snaps of them on my phone to study later. “Let’s get out of here. We need to put everything back the way we found it. I don’t want to tell anyone else about this room yet. Please?” Both Sheena and Kellen nod. I know I can trust Kellen, but I’m not sure about Sheena yet. She’s definitely a part of the town’s gossip train, but I hope she’ll hold this information back until I can find out more. I particularly don’t want Cora finding out about it from the rumor mill before I can show her in person.

  Kellen is the first up the ladder, followed by Sheena, who shines the light down from above so I don’t have to ascend in darkness. We replace the wooden trap door into the uneven hole in the cold room. There are scuffs in the thick dust from our feet that show the room has been occupied, but nothing to draw attention to the door in the floor specifically.

  Kellen rests the plaster-covered door to the cold room back into its brick frame. It’s much more apparent here that all is not what it seems, thanks to the piles of plaster dust on the floor and the exposed wood where we’d chipped the plaster away, but I’m hoping that since the inn’s basement isn’t used, no one will find it in the meantime. To be safe, I kick the plaster dust with my sneaker, scattering it in a thin layer over the concrete.

  “I’ll walk you home,” I tell Sheena, and we bid goodnight to Kellen.

  “That was better than I could have ever expected,” she says as we walk down Lighthouse Street. “I feel like we’re in a real mystery novel. A bootlegger’s secret hideout.” She’s got a grin from ear to ear, and it’s hard not to match her enthusiasm. In my work as a historian, I’d never made a discovery as significant as this. Right now, I feel like Indiana Jones discovering the secret passage in the library, and I didn’t even have to deal with rats. “How come you want to keep it a secret?”

  “Just for a few days. I want to find out more about who built it and who used it. Once the secret’s out, everyone’s going to want to come look and I want to have answers for their questions. I also need to find out if we’re even authorized to investigate and catalog it. The state might have regulations about discoveries of historical significance. Please, please don’t tell anyone yet, Sheena.” I stop for a moment and catch her eye. “Not even your mom.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” Sheena says, making an X over her chest with one finger. “I will pester you endlessly about what you’re learning, though,” she adds, and I laugh. Then she changes the subject abruptly.

  “So, you’re fucking Kellen Greene.” There’s no judgment or approval in her voice, it’s just a casual statement.

  “I—you don’t know that,” I say, flustered. I’m glad it’s dark so she can’t see how red my face is. “I mean, I am, but how did you…did he tell you?”

  “No, not a word. It’s the way he looks at you. You have this…it’s obvious.”

  “To everyone?”

  “I don’t know. It’s obvious to me. Don’t worry, Audrey, it’s cool. He’s a good guy if that’s what you’re worried about.” We walk half a block in silence. I open my mouth several times to speak but close it again. I’m at a loss for words.

  “You have mixed feelings about it,” Sheena prompts. We’re standing outside her front door. I shrug.

  “I guess so. I’m selling the inn to Cora as soon as the paperwork goes through and leaving Soberly. He wants me to stay and keep it. He wants a relationship.” It’s a difficult thing to say out loud. Sheena’s got a wide wooden swing on her porch, and she settles into it, motioning me to take the seat beside her.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because—” I stop to compose my thoughts. It’s harder to come up with an answer than it was a week ago. “Because I like my job. I like the types of projects I work on, I like seeing different parts of the country. I like knowing I can pick up and go anytime I want, that I’m not tied down by anything. I don’t know anything about running a hotel, except that there’s a maddening amount of bookkeeping. Roz and Cora both went to school to learn how to do this. I’d be flying by the seat of my pants. Alone. Because I’m positive if I do decide I want to stay and take it all on, Cora will leave, and I can’t do it without her. She’s indispensable. And she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you. She resents you.”

  “Same thing. She wants me out of town, out of her life. The longer I’m here, the more irritated she’s getting. I should have never agreed to stay at her place.”

  “So, move out.”

  “That would make things even more tense. At least while I’m staying there, there’s a sort of forced civility between us. Besides, where would I go? I can’t stay at the inn indefinitely.”

  “Stay with me then.” A sarcastic laugh bursts out of me before I can contain it.

  “You’d do that? Offer up your house to someone you’ve known a week?”

  “Why not? We get along well enough, and I hate living by myself. Having a roommate would be nice, even if it was only for a few weeks.” The way Sheena makes outrageous statements like they’re the most logical, matter-of-fact things is one of the things I like the most about her, but it also surprises me every time she does it. I realize I’ve never made skin-to-skin contact with her and haven’t had a single vision of her past. I know—and like—her purely on who she is in this lifetime. I’m not sure I’ve ever befriended someone on these terms before.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. “I want to keep Cora on my good side for now, but if things go south…” and I have a feeling they soon will, if she’s not open to what I’m planning, “I hope the offer’s still open.”

  “Absolutely. You’re always welcome.” She gets up and stretches with a loud yawn. It’s
well past midnight, and after thanking her again and wishing her goodnight, I make my way down the street toward Cora’s.

  A voice hisses my name when I turn the corner, making me jump. It’s Kellen, sitting on the front step of what I presume is his house. He motions me over, rising to meet me.

  “Want to see my bunk beds?” he murmurs into my ear. I stifle a laugh, which turns into a low groan as he palms my breast over my shirt. I nod my assent, and he takes my hand, leading me into the backyard and a set of stairs going down to the basement. It turns out he doesn’t have bunk beds at all, but he gets to be on top anyway.

  13

  Sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains wakes me, and I’m disoriented for a moment, unsure of where I am. I’ve finally gotten used to waking up at Cora’s. Now I’m in a strange bed again. Kellen’s warmth at my back, his body curled around mine, reminds me. His stillness and even breathing tell me he’s still asleep. I consider easing out of bed, creeping up the stairs, and tip-toeing out of here, but there’s no way I’ll be able to separate our bodies without waking him. Besides that, I find I don’t particularly want to. The clock radio on the bedside table says it’s past seven, Kellen’s bed is warm and comfortable, and I have nowhere pressing to be. Once again, beyond the point where I can pretend I came back to Cora’s after she went to bed. Audrey Eames, queen of the one-night stand, is enjoying a cuddle. The idea almost makes me snort. Instead, I close my eyes again and let the rhythm of my breathing match his.

  At half-past his alarm goes off, and his arm swings over my body to silence it. Then his hand slides down my side, pushing the covers away, and he hums in my ear.

  “This is nice, waking up with you,” he says and starts teasing me with his fingers. In no time at all he’s brought me to the brink of climax, my breath coming in hard, ragged gasps. Then, right above our heads, the sound of footsteps, and I startle violently.

  “Ignore that,” he says, never breaking stride in the circular motion he’s making, and although he takes me over the edge moments later, it’s not nearly as fulfilling as it could have been, and I’m pretty sure he can tell, based on the fact that he doesn’t move to take things any further.

  “Why are you so secretive, Audrey? Are you ashamed of being with me?” he asks after a moment’s awkward silence.

  “No,” I say, appalled at the question. “No, of course not. I just don’t like the idea of people here thinking I’m…that sort of woman.”

  “What sort of woman, exactly?” Kellen props himself up on his elbow and looks closely at me.

  “The sort of woman who sleeps around.” I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

  “Are you sleeping with anyone else in town?” he says, eyebrows raised.

  “Of course not. No, I mean I’m supposed to be grieving, not banging the hot bartender. I feel like it makes me look bad. Heartless.”

  “It doesn’t. It makes you look like a normal human being. No one cares, Audrey. Seriously. Stop thinking about what other people think so much. Look, I’ll show you.” He swings his legs off the bed and opens the door of his room, poking his head out. “Hey Ma,” he shouts up into the house, ignoring my frantic waves to stop what he’s doing immediately. “Can you make some extra breakfast? Audrey’s here.” An “of course” floats down from above, and after waiting a moment to see if Naomi would say anything further, Kellen nods in satisfaction and closes the door again. “Now, if there’s one thing about my mama, it’s that she does not suffer fools gladly. If she thought this was the wrong thing to be doing, I’d be getting an earful about it.”

  “She’d come down here and chew you out right now?” I can picture Naomi, alternately waving and pointing a wooden spoon, giving Kellen the type of lecture that leaves you shaking with fear afterward while we both clutch the sheets around us.

  “No, she’d call me upstairs on the pretense of helping her with something, and do it in the kitchen,” he says. “Besides, although she hasn’t said anything to me, I’m pretty sure she’s known for a couple days, and she’s had plenty of chances to talk to me if she wanted to. Now, breakfast is usually ready around eight, which doesn’t give us much time to shower.” He makes sure I can hear the click of the lock on his door and holds his hand out toward me.

  REGRESS

  The search party struck out again at first light after having been forced back to the village by darkness the night before. It had been snowing for three days straight now, and the cold was so fierce, the men wrapped scarves around their faces so nothing but their eyes were visible. This time they roped themselves together so as not to become separated in the blizzard, Father Lvov in the lead. Each had a long walking stick, and the last man dragged a wooden sled behind him. None spoke of what it was for.

  “We will make our way directly down the cart path in single file,” he had instructed them before they left the small church. “Once we reach the forest, we can untie ourselves and search amongst the trees.” Face set, Father Lvov led them in a short prayer, asking God to let them find Alexandra safe and well.

  Father Lvov refused to admit that the only outcome now was the recovery of Alexandra Rusova’s body. He had to believe there was still a chance she was alive, had only lost the cart path when the snow began to fall. Perhaps she had made a shelter amongst the trees, where the snow did not fall so hard. Perhaps she had even decided to risk the mountain pass to the village below and was now safe and warm in front of some kind person’s hearth, with no way of getting a message to her family. The pass had become untraversable within a day of the blizzard’s commencement. This was not unusual, and Father Lvov’s small village was used to interruptions in travel during the winter, sometimes being cut off from the rest of the world for a week at a time.

  By her mother’s account, twenty-year-old Alexandra had offered to check her uncle’s snares in the woods while the man was tending to the family’s livestock, preparing them for the incoming storm with extra feed and water. Everyone expected to have to hunker down for a few days, and an extra hare or two would be welcome. However, an hour after she left the cottage she shared with her mother and uncle, the winds came howling down from the mountains. Her uncle, who had a strong dislike for his brother’s daughter, had insisted on waiting until morning before looking for her, telling his brother’s widow, now his own wife, that she had assuredly found shelter with another villager. Come sunrise the next day, when that proved to not be the case, her mother raised the alarm.

  Father Lvov could see the young woman’s face in his mind as he pushed forward against the cutting wind—the soft brown curls that framed her face, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, which was often. Conversations between them were so easy. When he had begun calling on her in the fall, there had been no awkward silences or moments of agony, wondering what to say, and so their friendship grew into what Father Lvov felt, and could see that she felt too, was something more. His uncle Konstantin, his closest adviser and confidant, had agreed that the time had come for him to bring up the subject of marriage, a prospect that held no fear or dread for him like it did for some.

  With these thoughts in his mind, Father Lvov pushed forward against the wind, head bowed even as his spirit remained unbent. Alexandra was smart. She had grown up in these mountains, in this village. She knew how to take care of herself.

  By the time they reached the area of forest they were to search today, icicles caked his eyebrows and the area of his scarf in front of his mouth. He stomped his feet to quicken the blood in them and motioned the men to move into the woods. Once off the road, protected somewhat by the thick growth of evergreens, the sound of the wind abated and he unwound the scarf from his face to speak.

  “We go in pairs,” he told them. “Check your compasses often. We will call down the line to each other so we do not become separated. Look for anything that might give shelter—a fallen log, low-hanging boughs, a hollow tree. She was well-dressed for the cold, so there’s a good chance she’s still alive.”


  No one contradicted him, but nor did anyone rally to echo his optimism. Instead, the men untied the ropes that bound them to each other, split off silently into twos, and began walking amongst the trees, calling Alexandra’s name and poking their sticks into hollows.

  It was slow going, for even in the forest floor was blanketed by over a foot of snow, unmarred by tracks of men or beast. Father Lvov called Alexandra’s name every minute or so, straining for any reply. None ever came, but he did not give up hope, nor did he give up praying. He had been praying since the moment he heard she was missing in the storm.

  To his right, three short blasts from a whistle pierced the air. It was the search party’s agreed-upon signal that Alexandra had been found. Father Lvov plunged through the forest, forgetting entirely about his companion. The three blasts repeated, closer now. Could Alexandra still be alive?

  “Where are you?” he called out, and a member of the party shouted in reply, so the Father could follow the sound of his voice. He nearly sprinted the remaining distance, gulping the icy air into his lungs so they felt they were being stabbed by thousands of frozen needles.

  “Alexandra. You found her?” he gasped, nearly losing his footing at the last moment. Although there had been other search pairs between them, he was the first to arrive after the signal was raised, and so it was only the two men and himself. “Where is she?”

  One man prodded the branches of an ancient evergreen whose boughs were bent to the ground from the weight of the snow upon them. Underneath, Father Lvov knew, would be a small space, protected from wind and snowfall, smelling of spruce sap and rotting needles. He had played among such caves countless times as a child.

 

‹ Prev