I may have been only nine at the time, but even now, at twenty-eight, I still had a distinct aversion to all kinds of weapons—knives mostly, but guns and other types too—and likely always would. At the moment, just the sight of a firearm in such close proximity made me queasy.
“Can I give you a ride to your car?” Blake asked, startling me as he slid onto the driver’s seat. I hadn’t even realized he’d gone around to the other side or that he’d opened the door.
“No,” I said, too quickly. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my pounding heart as I added, “Thanks, but no need. I’m parked just a few blocks over.”
He eyed me strangely. “How about driving together? Did you want to follow us?”
“No, I’m good. I… I’ll meet you there.”
Flustered, I reached for the door handle and was about to give it a pull when he asked me if I was forgetting something. I turned and stared at him blankly.
“The document?” he prodded, a slight smile on his lips but a hint of concern in his eyes.
“Oh. Right.” I could feel my face burning as I fumbled with the latch on my bag, got it open, and pulled out the case.
“Here,” I said, holding it toward him until he took it from me. “See you at the house.”
Then I gave Nana’s shoulder a quick squeeze, got out, and walked away as fast as my legs would carry me.
CHAPTER TWO
Renee
Needing time to think, I decided to drive the local roads northwest to Nana’s rather than hop on I-64. That way I could ease more gradually into the inevitable, into what was really bothering me.
And I knew exactly why the sight of that gun had nearly generated a panic attack. It was because things were already heightened for me thanks to the knowledge of what I had to face next, what I always had to face when I came here: that first look at the “Dark Woods,” as my cousins and I called it, where the long-ago “Incident” happened. Located next to my grandparents’ house, the woods’ proximity made it an inevitable part of coming here, a tangible presence and constant reminder of a trauma we’d rather forget altogether.
But the woods wouldn’t let us forget. What happened had happened there, and as long as we wanted to visit our loved ones who lived in the house next to it, there was nothing we could do about that.
At least the woods and the estate were separated somewhat by a wide and impassible drainage gulley. Then again, all it took to get there was to walk toward the rear of the property and look for the wooden footbridge near the tennis court. That was how we’d always gone exploring as kids every year—my three cousins and I—over the footbridge and into the woods and all the way along the winding path to the old hunting cabin, where we loved to play house and pretend we were pioneers.
Not that we ever did it again, of course, not after it happened. Didn’t go there, rarely talked about it with anyone else, didn’t even like to look that direction, but there was no escaping its presence. Though the terrain in this part of Virginia was flat, in our minds the Dark Woods loomed large in the distance, like an avalanche about to give, or Mt. Vesuvius churning near Pompeii.
My cousins and I had not been victims of a crime back then, but we had been witnesses to one within the very cabin where we’d always gone to play. Ever since, for me, the challenge when returning here was in facing the initial sight of those woods, yet again, without letting the memories it awakened completely unnerve me. What other choice did I have, really? I couldn’t stay away from my grandparents, nor from the annual Talbot reunion, which was always held here. And at least it had become a little easier with each visit—correction, with each visit that didn’t include having a gun suddenly appear mere inches from my face.
I just needed to pull it together, put things back in perspective, and remind myself that what happened was a long, long time ago. There was much to do before tomorrow night, when the first families would begin to arrive for the reunion, and I was responsible for an important part of it this year. Surely I could find within myself the calm and reason that permeated every other area of my life except this one.
I turned up the radio, cleared my mind, and tried to focus on my breathing as I drove. Soon I did begin to feel better. It was nearly four o’clock by the time I reached the James River, and I crossed over it as slowly as I could, taking in the view on both sides. Less than five miles to go.
I exited the highway onto Huguenot Trail, happy as always to follow the pathways of my ancestors, and drove west, parallel to the river, enjoying the lush terrain that enveloped me. After several miles, I spotted the sign for Willow Lane and slowed for my turn. Other than the one home on the corner, there would be nothing else on Willow except for the Dark Woods—which started directly behind that house and ran for nearly a mile—and then, after that, the Talbot estate.
Clenching my teeth, I made the turn and kept going, driving past the corner house. Only once I was fully out of its sight did I slow down and pull over to the side of the road. I sat there for a long moment, preparing to confront the inevitable. You love coming here, I told myself in a quick pep talk. You just need to deal with the memories as usual and then you can move on.
Finally, I turned and looked. To my relief, the sight didn’t feel any more traumatic than in previous years, despite the incident with Blake’s gun. I guess the older I got, the better I understood that this place had nothing to do with what happened. It was just the setting, just the backdrop, nothing more than a collection of trees and brambles and brush. It had not been the one to wield the knife, nor the one to do what had come after. Feeling much better, I took a deep breath and started off again, continuing forward until the driveway of the Talbot estate came into view.
The house wasn’t visible from the road, but it was obvious just from the elegant entrance that it had to be nice. And it was. Set back amid towering yellow pines, the stately redbrick home appeared after rounding the first curve on the drive, and its beauty caught me anew every time I saw it. A three-story Colonial, the house featured a large white portico at the front door, tall shutters at each window, and a row of dormers along the roofline. Twin chimneys rose from each end of the structure, flanked by a glass solarium to the left and a four-car garage to the right. Behind that garage, though not visible from here, were a guesthouse, pool, and huge yard beyond. Way out back was also a tennis court and the ever-present footbridge to the woods, though I wasn’t going to think about that now.
I drove all the way around to the garage and parked, pulling to a stop behind several other cars. After turning off my rented Impala, I sat for a long moment, thinking through the rest of this day. It was time to get down to work, and though I would have dearly loved nothing more than to change into something comfortable first, I knew there would be other people around, which meant I couldn’t exactly trade out my skirt for a pair of sweats lest I give Nana heart palpitations.
As I walked to the front door, I remembered yet again that this would be the first Talbot reunion since my grandfather’s death. Ten years older than Nana, Granddad had been ninety-two when he died, but he was sharp as a tack all the way to the end. He was an amazing man, and his absence this weekend was definitely going to be felt. Tears filled my eyes at the thought, but I managed to blink them away. No mascara smearing allowed, I reminded myself.
At least Nana seemed to be holding up well. I found her in the kitchen, talking with the caterer about tomorrow night’s dinner. The reunion was structured the same way each year, with immediate family coming on Thursday evening around six, sharing a big meal together, and staying in various bedrooms throughout the main house and the guesthouse. Considering that “immediate family” included four generations of Talbots, it was a miracle we could all still fit.
The larger reunion wouldn’t begin until Friday morning and would run until Sunday afternoon, with events, meals, and activities scheduled throughout. No ordinary family gathering, this annual reunion was open to Talbot descendants at large and often brought in more than t
wo hundred participants. Most of them stayed under a group rate at a hotel in town, with each day’s events taking place either here at the estate or in a ballroom at the hotel.
Such a massive undertaking was no small feat, but thanks to a top-notch reunion committee, eager volunteers with years of practice, and a set of finely honed procedures, things usually went off without a hitch. The fact that Nana employed a veritable army of hired help to augment efforts behind the scenes didn’t hurt either. By the time things kicked off Friday morning, her back lawn would have been transformed into a wonderland of white canopy tents, four separate buffet service lines, and enough activity stations to entertain participants of every age.
It looked as if Nana was going to be tied up for a while, so I just gave her a quick wave to let her know I’d made it and then returned to the entrance hall, which was wide and majestic and ran the entire depth of the house. Because the back wall was lined with windows and French doors looking out on the pool and grounds, the overall effect when coming in through the front door was striking and made the house feel even bigger than it already was.
Looking along the left side of the entrance hall and moving clockwise, first came the door to my grandfather’s study, then the main staircase, the doorway that led to the dining room, and a half bath. Continuing on the right wall was the door to the laundry room and a mudroom beyond, and then finally, to my immediate right, was the large and sumptuous living room.
I loved the whole house, but for the next few days, my mind would be on the laundry room and mudroom. That’s because we were going to turn them into a sort of mini museum, offering the first and final private viewing by the Talbot descendants of the Persecution Pamphlet before it would be given over to the Smithsonian. Connected by a swinging door, each room had its own entrance and exit, which made them the perfect choice for funneling through tons of people in an orderly fashion.
Knowing they would lose the use of these machines for a few days, the cleaning staff had tried to wash ahead of time everything that might be needed for the reunion. And though it wouldn’t be as convenient, at least there was a small, stacking washer-and-dryer unit out in the guesthouse should any emergencies crop up in the meantime.
Going into the main laundry room now, I found a worker up on a ladder mounting a projector to the ceiling and a man I recognized as Dr. Harold Underwood standing below giving directions. An academic and scholar, he specialized in historical documents and had been one of the members of the authentication team four years ago. He was short and stout with tufts of gray hair on a round, balding head. He’d been a valuable part of the team back then, and I was pleased to see him now.
He greeted me warmly with a double handshake and a smile. “Dr. Talbot, so nice to see you again. Very nice.”
He dove right into an explanation of what he’d managed to accomplish thus far, and as he talked it was easy to hear the enthusiasm in his voice. I’d hired him to help transform these two ordinary rooms into a temporary viewing space where the pamphlet could be put on display without endangering it in any way. Happy to help, he’d been the one to design the layout and bring in the necessary equipment for maintaining appropriate conditions of temperature, humidity, lighting, and more that the pamphlet required. He was also working with Blake to keep the priceless document secure, starting with a locked and alarmed preservation-quality viewing cabinet. From the looks of things, Dr. Underwood and his helpers had already made a lot of progress.
As for Blake, he seemed to be in absentia at the moment.
The older man showed me the sketches he’d done of the basic layout, starting with black fabric panels that were now being hung around the perimeter of both rooms. Covering every inch of space except the doorways, the panels even hung in front of the washer and dryer, completely obscuring the fact that this was a laundry room. Next door, an extra wall of panels had been erected across the center of the mudroom, creating a buffer around the display area to protect it from exposure to any light that might come in when the exterior door was opened.
Entering in groups of about ten to twelve, guests would start in the first room, which would be set up as a viewing area, with a projector, screen, and two rows of folding chairs. There they would watch an eight-minute video Danielle had created for the occasion, one that explained the history of the pamphlet. After that, they would file through the swinging door into the mudroom, where they would weave around the protective black fabric panels to stand in front of the case and get a look at the document itself. Posters propped on easels would line the walls, providing further information that folks could view as they waited their turn. I felt our plan was doable, thanks in large part to the fact that these rooms were a bit more spacious than the average laundry and mudrooms.
Danielle had designed the posters using facts and photos I’d sent her, then she’d emailed the files to the local Talbot branch, where they’d been printed and delivered here. I hadn’t seen them in person yet, so once Dr. Underwood finished his recap, he went back to what he was doing and I set about unpacking the posters so I could get a good look at them myself.
Of course, they were all great. Danielle was incredibly gifted, and it showed in everything she did. The facts-only information I had sent her had been pulled into bulleted lists and call outs with colorful arrows and lines and shapes that led the eye from one important point to the next. Most Talbots knew of the pamphlet’s existence and some of the basic story behind it, but I doubted many of them had heard the whole tale, and almost none had ever seen the real thing in person.
I was arranging the posters on easels when Nana popped in, a small piece of paper in her hand.
“This is for you, dear. Blake’s phone number. He asked that you contact him whenever the pamphlet is going to be out of the safe so he can be present.”
“Even at the house? Is that really necessary?”
“His primary task is to keep that pamphlet secure until it’s given to the Smithsonian on Saturday. We can’t blame him for being diligent.”
“Fine,” I groaned, typing his number into my phone’s contacts. “I guess it won’t be too inconvenient.”
“Oh, and one other thing.” She gestured for me to follow her into the hall where we could speak privately. Once there, she said in a soft voice, “Will you be able to remember the combination to the safe if I tell it to you? I’d rather you not write it down.”
“No need unless it’s been changed.”
“You still remember it? From four years ago?”
I nodded.
“But you only used it a few times, Renee. I know how smart you are, but still…”
“It’s calcium silicate.”
“Excuse me?”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “That’s how I remember it, Nana. Calcium silicate is made up of calcium, silicon, and oxygen. On the periodic table, calcium is twenty, silicon is fourteen, and oxygen is eight. Which is the combination, twenty-fourteen-eight. Calcium silicate. It even sort of rhymes.”
I was proud of the clever memory aid I’d come up with, but Nana just gaped at me for a long moment, baffled and bemused. Then she simply shook her head and started for the stairs.
With a smile I went back to my mini museum and picked up where I’d left off. An hour later we were just finishing up when Dr. Underwood let me know he would be needing the pamphlet soon in order to determine placement and make his final adjustments with the lighting.
“No problem. I’ll contact Blake,” I said, and then I shot him a text asking him to come here ASAP if possible. Butterfly needs to emerge from cocoon, I added, smiling at my spy-talk and hoping he’d get the joke.
He responded soon after.
Be there in 15. Sustain diapause until my arrival.
I actually laughed out loud, amazed that someone like him would know the term. Diapause was an extended state of rest that organisms, including butterflies, sometimes entered into. By telling me to sustain it, he was saying to leave the pamphlet in the safe for now
. Too thrown to come up with a clever reply, I texted him back a simple Will do. Over and out.
He showed up just as Dr. Underwood was dismissing his workers for the day and I was straightening the chairs in front of the portable movie screen.
“Thanks for waiting,” Blake said as he came into the room. Then, glancing around furtively, he stepped closer and added in a low voice, jaw set and lips barely moving, “Imago may now emerge from chrysalis.”
Again, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Very impressive, Keller. Let me guess, you picked up the lingo during a previous assignment, one where you had to guard some rare species at a local butterfly conservatory?”
“Nope.” With a sheepish smile, he gestured to his phone and added, “Once I realized we were playing secret agent, I just googled ‘terms related to butterflies’ and found some code words I could use.”
“Clever. Very resourceful.”
He shrugged modestly, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Comes with the territory. Kind of like it says in the Bible, I try to be all things to all people. You’re a scientist. I can do scientist—or at least pretend well enough to hold up my end of the conversation.”
His eyes locked on mine, and I felt an odd shiver. Quoting the Bible? Throwing out scientific terms in an attempt to speak my language? Maybe there was more to this guy than I’d first given him credit for. The thought surprised me, sending heat to my cheeks. Breaking our gaze, I managed to mutter, “Be right back.” Then I turned and headed for the door, my pulse surging as I went.
I tried to talk myself down as I walked across the wide entrance hall toward the study. There was a big difference between googling and knowing. Anybody with a smart phone and half a brain could do what he’d done. Other than being adaptable and accommodating, there was nothing special about Blake Keller, nothing at all.
Except maybe those eyes, which were a deep green flecked with gold. And that hair, thick blondish-brown hair that almost made a person want to run their hands through it, if they went for that sort of thing.
My Brother's Crown Page 3