by Lyla Payne
He leaves, closing the door behind him. I don’t realize I’m waiting to hear the sound of our extra locks clicking into place and the alarm being set until both are done.
“I’m going to take a bath, if you’re good.”
Amelia smiles at me, then down at Jack. “We’re fine, Grace. I’d say go relax, but I know you’re going to spend the whole time on your phone trying to figure out if you can find Clete’s family cabin. So I’ll say good luck instead.”
She knows me too well.
My research is interrupted by a text from Daria, which is kind of spooky since we were just talking about her. I wasn’t having much luck in my search of Nantahala National Forest anyway—the land was handed over to the government so long ago that any property records would have long since been relegated to archives. If they ever existed at all.
I’ll have to dig into the state information on the library computer at work tomorrow, but to be truthful, I’m not sure I want to find Clete Raynard. My gut says that it would be in my best interest to leave him to his own questionable business, whether he wants to rope me into it or not.
There is the mystery of the garnets, though. Someone is following me in order to leave them. Someone who’s either a ghost or isn’t out of place around town, because strangers are something that people notice around here.
I’m not sure why I can’t shake loose the idea that my mother is involved. Maybe because she’s the only other person who knows where she disappeared to all those years ago, or because all the garnets appear to have been planted by a ghost, or because she might have cared for Clete while she was alive.
But if it is my mother, why has she gone to all this trouble? She didn’t seem to care too much for me in life, so it’s a bit hard to fathom why she’d come all the way back from the dead to do it now.
The message from Daria is cryptic, and the fact that she’s sent it at all stokes my curiosity. I can’t remember if she’s ever been the one to reach out to me first.
G. Call me, and make it quick.
I roll my eyes. It’s hard to say whether Daria has been living under a rock for all of her adult life, or if she’s deliberately chosen to pretend she doesn’t understand technology. I guess it doesn’t matter, because I’m too curious to not call her back just to teach her a lesson.
“’Bout time,” she answers, her voice low and raspy.
“You know, it’s customary to call a person if you want to speak with them on the phone.”
“I’m not much for customs.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. What’s up?”
“I need your help. Can you come out here tonight around ten?”
“Help with what?”
She pauses. “I’d rather not say over the phone.”
I heave a sigh without really meaning to. There are about a million things on my plate right now, but there are also two very big reasons to say yes. First, I’m curious as shit. Second, I owe Daria pretty big after she helped me with the very dangerous, very complicated ghost of one Mama Lottie, and she’s not one to call in favors unless she really needs the assist. Which makes me want to know all the more.
Dammit.
“Fine. I’ll see you there.”
Daria, charmer that she is, hangs up before I finish my sentence. I sigh and set the phone down on the edge of the tub. I’ll have to take Amelia’s car to Daria’s, and I hate leaving her home without a way to leave. The sad fact of the matter is, there’s really no one else I can ask for a lift. Even if I could talk Mel into a night out, there’s no telling how Daria would react to unexpected company. Doesn’t matter that Mel works for her.
My phone buzzes with a text a few minutes later and nearly shimmies its way into the bubbly hot water. I yelp and catch it just in time.
“Way to live dangerously, Gracie,” I mutter to no one in particular.
The text is from one Leo Boone.
My heart stutters and then clunks down into my stomach, sending nerves radiating out into my limbs. I swipe it open with fingers that are damp, wrinkled, and shaking.
Are you okay?
Fine. Why?
Saw your car. Glad it’s nothing.
Freak thing, I guess.
Always is with you. He follows that up with a smiling emoji. Sorry about your car, though.
Thanks.
I watch the screen with so much concentration that I should be able to make more little conversation dots appear with my mind. It doesn’t work, and after two or three minutes of waiting for him to say more, I give up and put down the phone. On the mat beside the tub this time, just to be safe.
Graciela Harper is nothing if not willing to learn from her mistakes. At least, I’d like to be.
The water turns chilly, so I grab a towel and cast a sorrowful look toward my soft, warm pajamas on the counter. Now that my evening includes an outing, real clothes will be in order. And more exposure to the cold weather.
My phone buzzes again and I snatch it up like I’m at a Justin Timberlake concert and he’s just blessed me with a sweaty towel tossed from the stage. But it’s not from Leo. It is from Knox, and I find a different sort of smile on my lips. One full of anticipation, not anxiety and regret and longing.
We still on for tomorrow?
You bet. Want me to bring dinner?
I’ll cook. See you then.
I towel off and find black yoga pants and my warmest sweatshirt, dressing while my body tingles with desire. More importantly, with the absolute certainty that in the shitshow of the past several weeks, I’ve finally managed to get one thing right.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m getting ready to run out to meet Daria when my phone rings. The damn thing is getting more of a workout today than it has in months, and of course I forgot to put it on silent even though Millie took Jack up to bed a half hour ago.
“Dammit, what?” I hiss into the phone, not bothering to see who’s calling first.
“It’s nice to talk to you, too,” Mel says in response. “Are you ready or what?”
“Ready for what?” I ask, confused.
“To go to Daria’s.”
Her response does nothing to clear things up, even though I am, indeed, ready to go to Daria’s.
“Yes. But what does that have to do with you?”
“She called and asked me to come by the office and to pick you up on the way. Did she not mention it?”
Daria. There’s no point in being surprised. Maybe I should even be grateful, because this means I can leave Millie’s car here. “No, but I can roll with it. Are you here?”
“In the driveway.”
It’s a relief to slide into my friend’s warm SUV. Another bonus of the Mel-picking-me-up plan.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Mel’s eyes sparkle as she puts the car in reverse and backs out onto the street. “Do you know what this is all about?”
“I didn’t even know I wasn’t driving.”
“Right. Well, Daria is, you know…”
“Daria. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.” I put my hands up in front of the vents. Spring comes early to South Carolina, but it’s not early enough for me. “How’d she talk you into getting out in the middle of the night?”
Mel laughs. “The middle of the night. Oh, Gracie, you have no idea.”
“I have some idea,” I grumble, realizing too late that I’m talking to a parent of two. Maybe I’ve missed a few nights of sleep, but this is surely a case of preaching to the wrong audience. “What’s Will think about taking care of Mary?”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Will is great with Mary. As long as I get my boobs home by morning no one will skip a beat.”
“I have a feeling everyone loves you for more than your boobs. Just saying.”
“Maybe Grant,” she jokes, eyes on the road. She cuts a quick glance my direction. “Heard you had some car trouble today.”
“Yeah. Good times. I guess I’m walking for the time being.”
&nb
sp; I probably don’t even need a car in Heron Creek, technically. It takes me twenty minutes, max, to walk from home to work or the grocery store. Leo and I ran loops around the entire city in just over an hour. Back when we used to do those things.
“Sooooooo anything new you want to tell me?”
Her teasing tone makes me shake my head. Amelia has obviously been gossiping—not that I care if Mel knows about Knox, because I would have told her anyway. But this way allows them both to give me more shit.
“I’m thinking of adding another story time at the library?”
“Gracie! Come on. I’m an old married lady with a new baby. Give up the goods, woman!”
A laugh finds its way out of me, and I feel a rush of joy. Taking Knox up on his delicious offer has removed some of the sting out of my personal drama. While I know all that hurt will come welling back once it’s over, it’s nice to have a break from it. “Okay, okay. I slept with Knox.”
“The fisherman guy—I knew it. You said he’s super hot.”
“He is super hot, and his face is nothing to sneeze at, either.” I pause, trying without much success to control my smile. “And he’s got other admirable traits, as well.”
“I’m waiting…”
“He can cook.”
“Gracie!” she shouts again, exasperation oozing from her side of the car.
I crack up, but don’t give out any other information. Some things are best kept to oneself, my grandmother used to say. It’s unclear whether she meant that one shouldn’t kiss and tell, but she might have. Anyway, it applies.
“Is this, like, a relationship? Or?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just kind of, I don’t know. Blowing off steam?”
This time, the glance she sends my way is contemplative. “Forgetting, I’d say. Maybe even moving on.”
“Yeah. He offered this thing no strings attached. I’m, I don’t know, pretty much over Beau, but I’m not ready to even think about another relationship where I have to put in mental and emotional effort.”
“What about Leo?”
“What about Leo?” I repeat, trying not to snap. It’s not Mel’s fault, but Leo and the Boones are about the last thing I want to talk about right now.
It brings up a whole toxic stew: my lack of progress with Harlan, who seems to have gone MIA; my unraveling friendship with Leo; and my anger over how Trent and Mrs. Boone have dealt with the whole situation. The idea that she would try to force Lindsay’s hand where her own granddaughter is concerned. Blech.
“Ooookay. I was just wondering whether you jumping into bed with Knox has anything to do with what happened between you and Leo.”
I shrug, not taking my eyes off the road. This is Mel—I can’t just ignore her. It wouldn’t work, and besides, she knows me well enough to correctly read me. There’s little point in being rude. “No. Yes. I don’t know, Mel. I just know that this thing with Knox is simple. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t have to wonder what he wants or whether this is going to blow up in my face or how I’m going to feel when it ends.”
“I get it. Not having to think is a powerful lure.” She grabs a giant lemon drop out of a bag on the console between us, popping one in her mouth before offering me one.
“No thanks. I’m not eighty.”
That makes her laugh. “Daria got me hooked on these things. She gets them from some specialty sweets shop down in Beaufort and they’re so freaking addictive.”
“They’re probably rolled in coke or something,” I mutter, only half-kidding. Mel should know better than to take candy from strangers.
Or, in this case, a strange her.
We spend the second half of the drive out to Daria’s in silence. My mind starts to wonder what the medium could want from the two of us, but that line of thought is totally useless. This is Daria. It could have something to do with me, with a ghost, or maybe she just wants to tell us that she’s decided not to drink Diet Coke anymore. Truly.
The night has gotten colder. Stars twinkle brightly in the deep black sky overhead. Our feet crunch over frozen gravel and grass as we pick our way up to the trailer in the dark. Mel’s breath comes in fast white puffs and she’s almost vibrating with energy, despite moving markedly slower than normal.
Daria opens the front door before we can knock; she must have been watching for us. She’s wearing black from head to toe, including her hair, and she looks like some kind of deranged superhero. Or like she’s aiming to steal the lead role in the next Mission Impossible movie.
“It’s about time,” she comments, pointing toward me with a bright red fingernail. Her hand is wrapped around a can of Diet Coke, so that option must be out. “Bet it’s this one’s fault.”
“It is not my fault,” I say, wondering why on earth I feel the need to be defensive with her. “And we’re not even late. Now, can we come in? It’s cold.”
She turns around and retreats into the interior of the trailer, leaving the door open. Mel motions me forward, then closes the door behind us both. The only light is back through the office, in the space where Daria lives, and we follow it to find her flopped on the couch. She leans forward to pour some of her soda into a glass of what smells like rum, then picks it up, the ice clinking against the sides.
The scene is normal, but it’s not. She seems…rattled. Mel must sense it too, because she goes still at my side, her hat and scarf clutched in one hand.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly. As if she’s trying not to startle a skittish stray dog in danger of darting into the road.
Daria slams the rest of her drink and then sets the glass on the coffee table with a bit too much force. Her head snaps up, but even though Mel is the one who asked the question, her dark eyes land right on mine. “I don’t like ghosts in my house.”
I pause, taken aback. “Well, join the club.”
She stands up, and now there’s anger tumbling off her petite frame. She points a finger at me again, and it glistens red like it’s tipped with blood. The image and the anger tumble into me all at once, and for the first time in a while, I’m aware of how little we know about her. Nothing, really.
It takes all of my strength not to take a step back.
“Ghosts in your house are your thing, Graciela Harper. Yours.” She pokes the finger in my direction. “I never had a single spirit come around me unwanted my whole life until you showed up.”
“Okay, okay, let’s just take a breath here,” Mel says, ever the peacekeeper. “Daria, I’m guessing there’s a ghost in your house?”
“You’re a regular Sherlock,” Daria snaps, but now that her words are directed at Mel, there’s no venom behind them. She turns away from us and snatches her glass off the table, then heads over to the bar to up the rum content.
She doesn’t offer us a drink. Mel’s breastfeeding and probably wouldn’t have taken it anyway. I’m frazzled by this situation—enough so that I wouldn’t want to cloud my judgment or hearing, even a little bit—so it doesn’t matter. But it’s still a little rude.
“Daria, forgive me, but this ghost… Is it connected to me somehow, or are you just mad because you think our being…acquaintances is the reason it’s here?”
Daria’s back is still to us as she downs half of her new glass. When she turns, her face is a mix of expressions—some pity, some irritation, and healthy doses of both anger and curiosity.
The pause seems to go on forever, but then she says, “It’s your mother.”
I don’t hear anything else for a while. The trailer, Mel, Daria—everything is sort of muffled, like I’ve put my hands over my ears the way a frightened child would.
When it comes back, the first thing I feel is Mel’s cold hand on my arm. It’s wrapped tight, like she thinks she might need to hold me up.
“Gracie?” Her voice is breathless and dripping with concern.
Daria watches us both, her expression unchanged from a moment ago.
“Gracie, are you okay? Let’s sit down.”
My mother. It’s strange to hear someone mention her aloud, when I’ve been contemplating her more and more these past several days. But if she is back, and if she does have something to do with those stones, or with Clete’s whereabouts, why would Felicia go to Daria and not me?
“What does she want?” I ask. My voice sounds weird. My lips are numb. I think.
Daria raises an eyebrow. She seems less angry now and more concerned, though not necessarily about me. She’s probably worried I’m going to have some kind of breakdown on her couch.
“Tell her to stay away.”
“I can’t tell her to stay away, Daria, we’ve established that she’s haunting you and no—”
“No. That’s what she wants. She wants me to tell you to stay away.”
“Stay away from what?” I ask, not so much to Daria but to the universe in general. In true Felicia fashion, her message from the beyond is super vague. I have an idea, but I’m not ready to share it out loud.
“Or whom?” Melanie murmurs, still holding on to my arm.
“I don’t know. That’s all she keeps saying, and she never sticks around for long. There’s…there’s another presence that’s near her, or with her, and she doesn’t like it. So she never stays in one place.”
“Is that normal?”
“None of this is shitting normal, Graciela. Ghosts don’t show up at my house!”
“Yeah, I got that part.” I sit forward and pinch the bridge of my nose. Now that the idea of my mother as a ghost is more of a reality than a concept, my head is pounding. “I meant the ghosts-being-scared-of-other-ghosts part.”
“I didn’t say she was scared.” She shrugs at my look. “It’s not unheard of, spirits sticking together for one reason or another. Usually it’s because they have a common purpose, not because they’re friends or whatever.”