Page 11

Chapter 9

B y mid-June, even though it had been only two months, I felt as if I’d lived in Juliana forever. That my bones had always been warmed by this southern sunshine, that the honeyed accent had always been my native tongue, and that the smell of jasmine and magnolia and gardenia was now as familiar to me as that of baking bread. I may not have preferred the twangy gospel songs that played incessantly on Billie’s sound system—and that had taken to weaving themselves into the unusually vivid dreams I now regularly had—but I was making peace with them.

I loved our house, every odd angle and nook, every slightly off-kilter corner and intricately carved flourish. Mere and I had filled the conservatory with every kind of plant, and she did all the watering. I even took the occasional mouse or cockroach that skittered across the floors in stride. Funny how in New York they felt dirty. Here, they just seemed like a part of the natural world that deserved to live in peace. The only thing I couldn’t quite get ahead of was the constant layer of fine, whitish dust that covered everything. Even hours after I’d gone over every surface with the Swiffer, I’d discover a fine layer of it had settled again.

Billie’s was chugging along, seating over a hundred covers a day, collecting a solid group of regulars, and not just among the original families. A lot of the new citizens, a diverse group of folks from all over the country, were discovering us. I had loved running the New York Billie’s, but the pace of that town was nothing but hustle and grind. Somehow the work here felt easier, the new team, like a family. I might’ve lived my whole life in New York, but now I was home.

Peter, on the other hand, was still struggling. The insomnia persisted, and in between appointments, he would nap. At least then, there was peace. When he was awake, he was on edge, losing his temper easily and frequently at both Mere and me. When he wasn’t snapping at us, he was ominously quiet, a glowering, grumpy presence drifting through our home. I tried not to let it bother me. The guy wasn’t Superman. He was just an ordinary person who carried a lot on a daily basis. The weight of other people’s emotions was a heavier burden than most people knew; and I reminded myself, sometimes it made him overlook his own mental health.

One morning, however, he did surprise me by saying he had made an appointment for the following week with Dr. St. John—Doc Belmont, as everybody called him—about the insomnia. He promised to let him do whatever tests he thought were necessary to set my mind at ease. I kissed him and went to work, reassuring myself that everything was okay. That I wouldn’t worry, not until there was something real to worry about. I had faith in Peter. He’d be fine. And he’d come around.

He’d have to. Because Mere loved it here.

The sparkle in her eye, the skip in her step, it was all the proof I needed. My daughter was as happy as “a pig in collards,” as Finch Street liked to say. Mere loved Lilah’s house and had taken to calling Temperance her “bestie.” I started taking Tuesdays and Wednesdays off to play with her or go see one of the old films playing at The Juliana Theater and have Cokes and tea sandwiches afterward at the hotel. She spent Saturdays and Sundays, our busiest days at the café, at home with Peter, staying up late on those nights so after I got home, we could play Chutes and Ladders or read together.

After speaking briefly with James Cleburne Sr. on the phone, who said he’d put in a call to the guys who ran the well company himself, Peter kind of eased up on the whole issue. If the well was real, he couldn’t even find it, so it was a good bet Mere wouldn’t either. He agreed we should let her ramble around, as long as she kept the house in sight. And did she ramble. Before long, rows and rows of sparkling rocks she’d collected on her expeditions lined every porch railing, bookshelf, and windowsill in the house. She forbade me to move them, telling me Lilah was going to tumble them in her rock polishing machine, so she and Tempie could make them into matching friendship bracelets.

She still had the bad dreams, the ones about the children in the dark and the old woman with the crown of braids. Sometimes the children lit candles, she said, sometimes they sang songs, but they were always afraid. I comforted her when she woke, but more often than not, she never came to our room, instead tiptoeing into the empty bedroom next door to hers, sitting on the floor, and flipping through George Davenport’s collection of old books. I never told her how eerily similar my dreams were to hers. I underplayed them to Peter, as well.

At any rate, Peter said we shouldn’t worry too much about the nightmares, hers or mine. It was normal after all the change we’d both been through, and the fact that we were living in an old house that she wasn’t used to. As for the similar scenarios, he chalked it up to the power of suggestion. And the fierce protectiveness I felt for my daughter. I tried to accept this explanation.

What really bothered me was the idea of Wren Street and her friends living in our house. Since Jamie had told me, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Had they been shooting up? Trading sex for drugs? Meth heads, tweekers, junkies. I couldn’t get the images out of my mind, of some motley collection of individuals using my house for their own personal crack den. Maybe that was why Mayor Dixie wanted us out of the place. She was worried that we’d discover the town had allowed squatters.

I decided not to tell Peter. He didn’t need another thing making him uneasy about Juliana. I resolved to go over the spare bedroom one more time in case Wren and her cronies had left behind any signs. The next Saturday, after Mere struck off on another rock-hunting expedition, I threw together a bucket of cleaning products and a mop and headed upstairs.

George Davenport’s old room was snug, with its own little fireplace surrounded by a brick mantel. Sunshine poured in through the western-facing windows. White dust coated everything. I attacked the books first, the white iron bed frame, a skeletal thing since I’d thrown out the old mattress, and then the heavy walnut desk.

I checked the drawers of the desk. There were no drugs, but in the back of one drawer I found a heavy, faded, green linen bound book. It was a ledger of some sort, with columns of entries written in neat handwriting with faded ink, obviously extremely old, maybe even belonging to Silas Dalzell. The actual words were almost impossible to make out but seemed to be expenses, staples, and supplies needed on a farm. I flipped to the back of the book, to a page that had been torn out. On the following page, written in a blocky script and with pencil, was a new, obviously more modern, list.

Ax, hatchet, chainsaw, brush grubber, root grapple.

Okay.

Pool shocker, ammonium nitrate, Drano, nail polish remover, cold packs.

This list had to have been written by George Davenport. I blinked, staring at the page, not comprehending what I was seeing. Not until I typed the particular combination of items into the search bar of my phone and the alarming headline of an article flashed on the screen: Homemade Explosive Device.

Why would Davenport need an explosive device? Maybe for the infamous hidden well. He might have been trying to somehow get rid of it or make it safer. But why didn’t he just cover it with a slab of concrete? Blowing the thing up made no sense. But Jamie had said the old man was senile toward the end. Batty .

I replaced the ledger in the drawer and set to cleaning the baseboards with the bucket of soapy water and scrub brush. On hands and knees, I made my way around the perimeter of the room, attacking the grimy baseboards and molding like it was Lady Macbeth’s bloodstained hands. As I neared the old bookcase against the back wall, I came across a string of crude carvings in the board. I ran my fingers over the gashes in the wood, brushing away the dirty suds so I could make out what was written.

For the children, the markings read .

I sprang back, as if the letters had burned my fingers. My heart was leaping wildly in my chest, my breath gone shallow. I tentatively crawled back to get a closer look at the baseboard. There were more carvings after that—a string of letters. MBEDWS.

I peered at the nonsensical letters, my mind racing.

Calm down, Billie. They were obviously just initials. WS was Wren Street. Wren Street and whoever was squatting with her in the house were dedicating their activities in the house to some children, whatever that meant. Maybe conspiracy-type stuff, paranoia fueled by the drugs.

Or maybe . . .

I thought of the dreams Mere and I kept having. Children in the dark. Children scared and singing with the old woman. Did Wren have those dreams, too, when she stayed here? Could they somehow be connected to something that had happened in this house—or around it—and now there was some spiritual . . . residue in these rooms?

I looked around the space, the mental image flashing in my head: children huddled together in the dark, dirty skin streaked with tears. Fear filled the dank air, sharp and slightly sweet. The scent of desperation. The smell of death.

I banished the vision. My brain was just conflating the nightmares with these carvings and turning them into something meaningful. Humans were pattern-seeking beings, Peter always said it. We always gravitated to connected dots, whether they made sense or not. I just needed to calm down.

I looked around the room, thinking. Then, spotting the walnut desk, I dragged it over to the section of baseboard where the words were carved and pushed it up against the wall. It looked awkward there, and if you crouched, the carved letters were still visible, but it would have to do. I couldn’t have Mere or Peter finding it and asking questions.

I heard a door open and slam, and I jumped. I hurried out into the hall to see Peter, dressed in jeans, a white button-down, and a charcoal blazer, heading down the stairs.

“Hey.”

He turned toward me. His hair, still wet from the shower, curled at his temples. His clear eyes under reddish lashes and eyebrows locked into mine. I smiled, that open invitation that always existed between us.

He grinned back but gave me a warning shake of his head, reading my mind. “I can’t. I’ve got that doctor’s appointment.”

“Doc Belmont sees patients on the weekends?”

“He was doing me a favor. I think he wants a couple of free sessions for his granddaughter.”

“Sounds about right. There’s literally nothing in this town that can’t be bartered.”

He gave me a charged once-over. “Looking hot with that mop bucket.”

I shimmied seductively. “Got a maid fantasy, do you?”

“I’ve got an anything-that-involves-you fantasy. You know that.” He was on me in an instant, his hands moving down my back, over my ass.

I did the same, feeling something in his back pocket. “Shit.” I pulled out a small square of sea salt dark chocolate in a shiny blue wrapper. “You found my stash.”

“Bookshelves. Too easy.”

I laughed. “You’re never going to find them again.”

“Oh, I will. You’re a terrible pirate. I always find your treasure.” He kissed me and gently took the chocolate from me. “See you later, gorgeous.”

I laughed and he was gone, down the staircase and out the front door.

* * *

After work, when I went to pick up Mere at Lilah’s, she invited me in and went to pour us coffee. While Mere and Temperance raced through the house, screaming and giggling, I looked around the living room. It was a cluttered but cozy space, crammed with trailing plants in macrame hangers, polished rocks, and whimsical found-art sculptures.

I took note of a framed photograph on the mantel, a black-and-white senior class photo of a girl who had to be Wren. She wore a silky sundress and was leaning against a brick wall, arms and legs crossed. A pageboy cut of dark hair framed wide eyes and a frank expression.

Lilah returned as the girls thundered on the floor above us. “Do you want me to go get them?”

“No rush. I’m happy she’s having fun.”

“Can we sit?” Lilah’s face turned serious. “I did want to mention something to you.”

I sat in an armchair covered with a multicolored afghan. “About Mere? Is there a problem? I know she can get mouthy.” I laughed nervously. “She gets it from me. You can take the girl out of New York—”

“Oh lord, no.” Lilah laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not anything like that. Mere’s a perfect angel. It’s just something she brought over. A rock she found on your property, she said.” From her pocket, Lilah drew out a rock. It was about the size of a golf ball, a dull gold color and strange lumpy shape. “Mere wanted me to tumble it for a necklace, but I told her it might not be the best idea.” Her voice was low, like she was afraid the girls might overhear. She handed it to me, and I noticed her hand trembled the slightest bit. “I know this sounds strange, Billie, but I think it might be gold.”

I held the rock up. “No. It couldn’t be.”

“Actually, it is possible. Georgia had a gold rush back in the early 1800s, even before the California one. Most of the big mines were northeast of here in Dahlonega, but there’s a possibility some could be down here.”

I studied the rock. “You know, Jamie and I were talking about it the other day—the land lottery—and he said there wasn’t any gold found here in Juliana.”

Lilah was watching me closely. “How did you know about the land lottery?”

“Mere told me. She read about it the first night we were here. George Davenport left a bunch of books in his house about Georgia history.”

Lilah tilted her head. “Such a shame how old George’s family whisked him away so quickly and left behind his stuff.”

“He must’ve been very sick.”

She nodded. “Completely lost his memory. Started to hallucinate. They had to drag him out of the square one day. He was ranting and raving at the statue, like it was a real person.” She grimaced.

“Ranting and raving? About what?”

Lilah waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a bunch of hooey about how Juliana Minette wasn’t a little girl but some kind of monster or something. That she had horns sprouting out of her head. Wings. He threw a can of paint on her. It took them weeks to get it off. So sad.”

I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the defacement of the statue or George Davenport’s decline.

“You said Mere was reading history books?” she asked me.

I blinked. “She’s always been advanced, although I don’t know that she understands everything that she reads. That night she had a nightmare. She couldn’t sleep. She has them a lot.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I liked Lilah, but I was wary of oversharing.

“What are the nightmares about?” Lilah asked.

“Oh”—I lifted a shoulder—“nothing specific.”

Lilah looked doubtful. “That is an old house you live in.”

I smiled. “Ha. Don’t go there. You’ll freak me out. I sleep in that house, too, you know.”

“No, I’m serious. There’s something to a house’s history. Do you have the gift in your family? Second sight or psychic sensing? People around here call it the Holy Spirit’s gift of prophecy.”

“Um, no. I definitely do not have . . . whatever that is.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t be so sure. More people have it than not. Women, mostly. Girls, before they learn from this hard, mean world how to ignore it. They feel it in their bones. They get headaches, tummy aches, cramps. They dream dreams. Have recurring nightmares,” she said with a look of significance. “You know a lot of folks in this town are dreamers. I used to have these ones about monkeys—”

I smiled to cut her off. “I think Mere’s dreams are just your basic, run-of-the-mill, kid nightmares.”

“If you say so. If you want, I can send the rock off to get it verified,” she said. “In case it does turn out to be gold. That would be exciting, right?”

“That’s so sweet, but you don’t have to. I mean, we both know it’s probably pyrite.”

“Well, a girl can always hope. And I don’t know what your contract said,” Lilah said with a smirk and a quirk of her eyebrow, “but if it is really gold, I bet Mayor Dixie and the rest of the town council will definitely have something to say about those one hundred smackers you and Peter paid for that property.”

I handed it back to her. “Just polish it up for her. She’ll think it’s gold, and she’ll love it.”

“Sure thing.” Lilah pocketed the rock. “It’ll be our little secret.”

* * *

Mere and I had chicken salad sandwiches for lunch then spent the afternoon baking a coconut cake. Billie Holiday played on the record player Mere had set up on the counter. While Mere was busy stirring the batter, I surreptitiously slipped out and re-hid my chocolate stash in the dry fountain in the conservatory. As I passed through the blue parlor, I stopped to do a quick search on my laptop. There was nothing about a mine in Juliana. The only mention of gold found in our county, Bartow, was at a site called the Allatoona Mine, which apparently had been quite small and quickly played out. And according to the map it would’ve been located over fifteen miles away from here. So much for that.

Back in the kitchen, I dipped a finger in the batter. “Where’s Rams?” I asked Mere.

She was measuring flour. “Out.”

I glanced at her. Her bare feet were dirty, and her golden hair was tangled around her pale face, making her look like a feral child. “Does that make you sad?”

It was the kind of question Peter liked to ask, but seeing as Peter was not around—not in the mental sense, at least—I guess it was up to me to keep Mere in touch with her emotions.

She shrugged. “Yes, but outside is where he likes to be now. And that’s what Daddy says you do for people you love. Let them be where they want to be. It’s called acceptance.”

I smothered the laughter that wanted to erupt. My heart expanded in wild, out-of-control directions. God, my girl was a smart one.

I heard the back door screen creak and glanced over. Ramsey had pawed it open, slipped through, and was picking his way across the tile.

“Speak of the devil.” I looked over at Mere. She hung back, pressed against the hutch, her hands crossed behind her. We watched Ramsey navigate the tile, like he was slightly disgusted at its smooth surface, being an evolved creature who now traveled fields and pine-needle-strewn forests and pebbly creeks. He walked to the middle of the room, making a serpentine path around the chair legs.

“Here, Ramsey. Come on. Come see me.” He ignored me, which wasn’t all that unusual. I grabbed a treat from the glass container on the counter and held it out. “What you been doing, Ramsey? What kind of adventures you been having?”

Ramsey prowled under the table, ignoring me and the treat. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in divulging what he’d been up to while he was out in the wild beyond. And Mere was still pressed against the hutch.

“Sweetie, you okay?”

She kept her eyes trained on the cat. “He looks different.”

“Who? Ramsey?”

She nodded.

I followed her gaze, studying his orangey stripes. “Different, how?”

She shrugged. “Just . . . different.”

The cat had slipped out from the table and was now pacing in front of Mere. She made no move in his direction. I pocketed the treat, scooped him up, and tried to give him a once-over. He struggled in my arms, but I managed to flip him over, inspecting all the relevant orifices. He mewed angrily, and I held him out, legs dangling in midair, to her.

“He’s fine. He’s just gotten an attitude, running around outside. All he needs is a snuggle.”

She didn’t budge from her spot.

I waggled the cat a little. “Come on. He’s fine.” I caught her eyes. They shone with some sort of unspoken pain I’d missed. “Mere, honey. What is it?”

Mere looked at me, her eyes wide. “He’s the Catawampus,” she whispered.

“The what?”

“The Catawampus. Lilah told me and Temperance about it. Something’s turned Ramsey into the Catawampus, and I don’t want him anymore. I don’t want him.” She turned and fled the room. A few seconds later, I could hear her footsteps pounding up the stairs, then a door slam.

Just then, I felt a searing pain inside my wrist. Ramsey, clawing at me. “Shit!” I dropped him and he hit the floor like an Olympic gymnast. Then, with a snarl and hiss, he streaked through the swinging door and out of the room.