by Nicole Bross
“Sometimes on the holidays.” He shrugs. “You’ll see my mama there though. She goes every week. Is this Cora’s idea?”
“Cora’s a member?”
“Yes, a pretty devoted one, I think. She’s heavily involved in the ladies’ group, and volunteers on a bunch of the committees.”
Something untwists a bit deep inside me. If the Soberly church allows an openly gay woman to attend there, it couldn’t be like the one I grew up in at all. My racing heart slows a bit, and I take a deep breath of relief.
“I had no idea. No, it was just something I wanted to do.”
He lowers his voice and leans in, his hand finding mine. “You sure you’re all right? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look pretty rough.”
“I was sick this afternoon, and now I’ve got this headache. Like I said, a good sleep is all I need to get myself sorted out. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.” I’m still too shaken up to notice the brief vision his touch gives me.
As I slide off my stool and turn to leave the pub, I see a few heads look away from us quickly and return to whatever conversations they’d interrupted. Whatever, I think, ignoring the curious stares. Two people can have a conversation. If one of those two people was gently stroking the hand of the other while they talked, drawn to touch almost by instinct, their heads so close as to be almost resting against each other, that was no big deal either.
15
Services at the Soberly church don’t begin until ten a.m., so I get to sleep in a bit for the first time since I’ve arrived in town. I’d told Cora the night before that I was planning on attending this morning’s service, eliciting a surprised smile from her.
“I have to leave early to set up for the ladies’ group after the sermon, but I’ll see you there, I’m sure,” she’d told me before I turned in for the night.
True to my expectations, my headache is gone when I wake up, and although I’m still anxious, it’s not nearly at yesterday’s level. I put on my blue sundress, a cardigan, and wedges, and head on foot for the church spire. It’s easy enough to find—the spire makes the church the tallest building in Soberly and is visible from every part of town. The church itself is a small building made of wood painted light gray, built in the shape of a cross, the same as countless small-town churches of the time. Four or five stained glass windows run along each of the long sides of the building. I judge it to be around the same age as the inn and many of the other buildings in town—about a century old. I make a mental note to ask Sheena if she ever found evidence the church was involved in the smuggling business.
Outside, a dozen or so people are milling by the door, enjoying a few extra minutes of sunshine before heading inside. I smile and nod at one family as I move toward the group, uncertain whether I should start making my hellos now, or wait until after the sermon. Then I hear a familiar voice.
“Audrey, it’s good to see you.” It’s Naomi, and she motions me over to where she’s standing with several other women, all around the same age as her. I shake hands dutifully, paying careful attention to the short visions each one gives me. Although the chances of a woman in her mid-sixties being a serial killer are slim, I can’t rule anyone out. Everyone looks somber, and I understand why when the conversation resumes and Marnie’s death is the subject.
Accordingly, three of the five visions I’d been given had involved death, either remembering the passing of a loved one, or their own last moments. I file it all away to record later. This is good, I tell myself as I wave at Jenny Crumb, who introduces me to her husband Mark. If everyone has dying on the mind, I can look for anyone who feels pleasure at the idea of death or suffering. If I’m really lucky, I’ll find someone who might have committed a killing in a past life. The thought ratchets up my anxiety a bit again, and I discreetly take a few deep breaths to settle myself. People begin moving inside the building, and I follow suit, heart pounding. I swallow hard as I step over the threshold. Sweat pools under my arms and on my temples, and I swipe at the latter with the back of my sleeve, half-expecting to be struck down by a bolt of lightning. The familiar panic at being branded as unworthy has returned in full force. For a moment, I stand frozen in the narthex, unable to step into the nave to take a seat.
“Sit with us, Audrey,” Naomi says from behind me, misinterpreting my hesitation as not knowing which pew to choose. “It’s nice and cool inside, come on,” she adds and pulls me by the elbow to a pew three or four from the front. She bustles me in and I plunk down onto the smooth wood, worn from untold thousands of people over the decades settling themselves in like I am now. No blast of light obliterates me from above, and just like that, I’m sitting in church.
The reverend, I see with shock, is a woman. This is not my father’s church, I tell myself.
The reverend begins by enjoining everyone to pray for Marnie and her family and says a few words about her service to the town and her loved ones. Most people are dabbing at their eyes with tissues at the tribute.
The sermon itself is, like Kellen said, very progressive. By the end, my fear of having to sit in silence and listen to an angry diatribe is entirely dispelled. Not a single person was condemned to hellfire. In fact, hellfire wasn’t even mentioned.
“Let me introduce you to Reverend Miller,” Naomi says afterward and shoos me up the aisle to the altar, where a few people have gathered to chat. The woman in question looks to be in her mid-forties, with a broad, friendly face framed with loose blonde waves. I remember seeing her amongst the crowd when Marnie’s body was first discovered in the storm pond.
“Audrey Eames,” I introduce myself, extending my hand. She grasps it firmly.
Dirt from the explosion rained down on the men’s helmets as they crouched in the narrow trench. Most hunched their shoulders instinctively against the harmless projectiles.
“That was a close one, Sargent,” one of the men shouted. “They’ve fixed our location. What do we do?”
“Should we fall back?” a second man yelled. There were around thirty of them spread out along the trench. The Sargent knew he couldn’t reach them all with his voice amongst the commotion of the shelling, so he motioned them to gather close to him.
“Hold the line!” he bellowed. “We do not fall back. Air support is on the way. We hold, and then we follow orders and take back this town.”
“Air support, incoming three minutes!” the radioman shouted from his position at the machine. The Sargent saw everyone tense.
He looked at their frightened faces. Most were little more than boys, young farmers fresh from eight weeks of basic training on the Canadian prairies and shipped overseas, leaving behind parents, siblings, and sweethearts. It was his job to make sure they made it back home to their loved ones again. It was also his job to make sure they served their duty to help win the war. At some point, those two jobs were going to conflict with each other. That time was likely today. They were already under heavy fire, and as soon as their air support arrived, they would be leaving the relative safety of the trench to engage the enemy directly.
“Gentlemen,” he began as another shell fell close enough to shower them with dirt. “Today is our moment to show the enemy what we are made of. Today is the day we make not only our friends and families, but our entire country proud. This is no small skirmish, men. This is the real thing. This is what you’ve been training for. This moment. This is why you enlisted. That feeling when you signed the papers to join the army—pride, bravery, belief that what we fight for is just and true. That’s what I want you to carry forward with you now. Are you ready?”
The men roared in response at the same moment the bombs from above impacted at the other end of the pockmarked field, shaking the earthen walls around them.
“Advance!” he bellowed, heaving himself out of the trench to lead the way.
“Trish Miller,” she replies with a broad smile. “It’s very good to meet you, Audrey, and may I offer my condolences on the loss of your aunt. I’ve been meaning to get over
to the inn and welcome you to the community, but it’s been…well, a busy week, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” I reply. “I enjoyed your sermon today, Reverend.”
“Oh, call me Trish,” she admonishes. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll see you around town.” She turns to another of the congregants and greets her. Most of the worshipers have moved outside again to mingle on the lawn, and I join them. A few introduce themselves, guessing who I might be. Everyone is friendly, and by the time I leave, I feel more at ease with the people of Soberly than I have since I got here. They are good people, as both Kellen and Sheena have told me. Their past and present demeanors prove it. I haven’t picked up on a single sinister note from anyone I’ve met.
Cora invites me to join the ladies’ group afterward, but I beg off with the excuse that I want to take a nap. Once again, the large number of past-life memories in such a short amount of time has exhausted me emotionally. Before I leave, Trish seeks me out.
“If you ever want to talk about your aunt, I’m here for you, Audrey,” she says. “Maybe we can have a cup of tea sometime.”
“I’d like that, thank you,” I reply as she squeezes my arm in a gesture of friendship.
REGRESS
Karina would go to the devil before she married Pavel Markov, she swore furiously to herself. She had finished delivering an impassioned speech avowing that very thing. There was nowhere to escape to with the temperatures outside fatal to any who braved them for long, so she fumed silently at the dinner table, ignoring the bowl of thin soup in front of her. Her hands were trembling far too much to lift the spoon to her lips, so she clenched them under the table. Her father, who had threatened to beat her if she spoke so much as another word against the match, considered the matter settled, but it was far from it. Even if they dragged her kicking and screaming down the aisle, they could not force her to say the words that would bind her to a bully, a man she knew was cruel and cold-hearted. A man who did not love her. A man her parents were desperate to make an alliance with, thanks to his power as one of the village’s councilors and his family connections in the city far to the south. None of that mattered to Karina, however. She was appalled that her parents would sacrifice her future happiness this way, all to further their own shortsighted ambitions.
Pavel, who smiled oily at her from the opposite side of the table, spooned his soup into his mouth as though nothing had occurred. Only Father Lvov spoke up.
“Alexei,” he said, his voice warm and subdued. As soon as Karina heard his tone, she shot him a look of thanks. He was on her side. “There are obviously still obstacles to overcome before this marriage can be made. Karina clearly is not in agreement—”
“It doesn’t matter if Karina is in agreement or not,” her father interrupted. “She will do as I command, or she is no longer my daughter.” Although his voice was level, her father’s face was reddening rapidly, and Karina knew when it reached a certain point, no one in the room was safe from his anger—or his fists.
“All I’m saying is if you want this marriage to succeed, perhaps more work needs to be done both on Pavel’s part to convince Karina that he truly cares for her, and on your part to convince her it’s the right choice to make.”
They could talk themselves hoarse. Nothing would change her mind. She was certain Father Lvov knew it as well and was only trying to diffuse the situation and save her from a beating. Far from relieving the tension in the room, it ratcheted up as Alexei perceived the Father’s words as criticism. Enraged, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“You dare insult me in my own home.” He shouted and grabbed for the Father’s coarse woolen sweater. Father Lvov leaned back just in time. He rose and took a few steps back, holding his hands out in front of him, beseeching Alexei to calm himself. Karina watched in horror, while Pavel had a small smirk on his face. It was common knowledge he did not like the village priest and sought to undermine him and his ideas often. Karina’s father was several inches taller, and at least thirty pounds heavier than Father Lvov.
“Alexei, sit down. You shame yourself,” Father Lvov thundered, but the man ignored him and took a swing at his head as the Father danced backward out of his reach. Alexei swung again, and this time his fist connected, although Karina felt like it might have only been a light blow. The Father didn’t even look dazed as he darted forward, faster than the bigger man, and hit him twice in succession, sending Alexei reeling into the table. The bowls clattered to the floor, spilling soup everywhere. For the first time, Karina’s mother moved, leaping backward away from the mess. Alexei grabbed Karina by the hair and pulled her around to face him.
“This is all your fault,” he snarled as she shrieked and struggled to free herself. Blood was pouring from his nose, and fine droplets rained down on Karina’s head. Then Father Lvov’s fist made solid contact with his face, and he sank to his knees, his grip releasing from her hair as he fell backward, unconscious.
“Come with me, Karina,” Father Lvov commanded, pulling her winter cloak off the hook beside the door. He was out of breath, brows drawn together until they almost touched as he glared at her father’s prone form on the floor. “You can stay with my uncle Konstantin and his wife tonight, I think.” Bracing herself against the cutting wind, she followed him out the door, leaving her home behind her.
16
Trish is a part of the same close-knit group of people in Soberly who are drawn to each other through lifetimes, I muse as I dawdle my way back toward Cora’s house. It makes me happy to know she’s found her kindred and is in the right place. I also have another entry for my journal, along with more insight into Father Lvov’s personality, this time from an outside perspective. In Trish’s vision, he demonstrated a strong sense of protectiveness toward the young Karina, and a desire to ensure she was treated with dignity. That itself was uncommon in a more patriarchal time, but his willingness to jump into a fight is what surprises me most. Is that an integral part of who he is, or was that how disagreements were settled in those days? I haven’t known Kellen long enough to be able to tell.
Walking past Kellen’s house, I’m about to stop and knock—knowing his mom is still at church—when I remember he’s probably at the inn, working. Weekends are particularly busy on the pub side, and this is lunchtime. The thought makes my stomach growl, and I almost change my destination. Now that I’ve survived my first church service in over a decade, my body is starting to remember how to be hungry again, and a big platter of the pub’s food would hit the spot. On the other hand, I’m completely peopled out; the thought of spending even a short period of time in a room with a new bunch of folks gives my anxiety a spike. For now, solitude wins the day.
The only person I meet on the way is Drew, who is headed in the direction of the inn. He slides the headphones off his ears and we bump fists as usual. He gives me a brief vision of an adult woman knitting placidly in the evening in front of a fire. While the room she’s seated in is finely decorated, she wears the clothing of a servant. Nevertheless, she appears content.
“Working?” I ask.
“Yep. You coming by?”
“Not today, I don’t think. I’ve got other stuff to do. I’ll be there all day tomorrow though.”
“Awesome.” He flashes me a smile and we part ways.
Once back at Cora’s, I decide to spend the afternoon doing some general research on the smuggling trade on the Pacific Northwest coast during Prohibition. I also look up whether I have to notify the state about the discovery in the basement of the inn. I’m in the clear there—although it concerns criminal activity, it’s decades outside the statute of limitations, and the fact that the room is on private property means I’m fit to do with it whatever I please.
I spend the rest of the day downloading journal articles from historical periodicals to sift through. All cover the subject of bootlegging in Oregon. The basic strategy was to have Canadian whiskey loaded onto small fishing vessels in British Columbia, then
have them sail south under cover of darkness and put into port in various towns along the coast. That way, even if one ship was pursued or captured, the others could deliver their cargo safely. Then the liquor was transported inland. I find multiple references to this part of the state in my reading; mostly records of Coast Guard pursuits and arrests, but there are a few interviews with smugglers as well. Although nothing ever mentions Soberly specifically, one article talks about raids on towns close to here. Based on that omission, it seems likely the bootleggers here had managed to stay under the radar. I won’t be sure until I can go through the town’s records and look through the arrests for the time period.
The thought of diving into a project like this, with such a lurid history, fills me with an excitement I haven’t felt on the job for a while. There’s not much to get enthusiastic about when it comes to a potter’s guild that mainly manufactured plain beige crocks, canisters, and platters, which was the contract I had completed when I found out Roz had died.
Cora doesn’t return from her ladies’ group until after supper, at which point I have a headache again, probably from hours spent staring at my laptop’s screen. She tells me I look like I need to lie down, and I don’t argue with her. Armed with an ice pack for the back of my neck, I prop myself up against the headboard with some pillows, flip to a new section of my journal, and begin writing down my big idea to draw more clientele to the inn. It’s just to help Cora out, I tell myself. I want the inn to succeed because it was Roz’s dream, and I loved her.
When I’m done my rough plan, I sit back and read it over for a long time, feeling lower than the day I arrived in Soberly and read Roz’s letter, imploring me to consider making my life here. I’m not sure I want to hand this plan over to Cora, head back to an apartment in the Southwest devoid of personality, pack up, and move from town to town in a rented car every year. In one short week, everything I thought I knew about what I wanted in life has been turned on its head. Normally when I’m faced with big decisions, I make a list of pros and cons and pick a choice based on what’s most logical. This time, my heart is overriding all my objections, and I don’t how to factor it in. Closing my eyes, I try to imagine having this conversation with Roz where I tell her all my problems and ask her what to do. Her answer comes so easily; she doesn’t even have to think before she replies.