Page 18

Chapter 15

W hen the band started to play Styx’s “Renegade,” Peter took my hand and pulled me toward the house. It was quiet inside, and we wandered for a bit, eventually finding ourselves in a library. It was an impressive room lined with walls of books that reached from the high ceiling to the floor. What looked like extremely old volumes of Dickens and Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, O’Connor, and Faulkner.

In the center of a thick and very old Persian rug, a long oak table held a huge Bible, opened on a stand. As Peter moved to examine one of the shelves and pull out an old book, I drew closer to the Bible. A passage, lit softly from above, was underlined in faded ink.

I will freely sacrifice unto thee. I will praise thy name, O Lord, for it is good . . .

I stared at the words, feeling a strange sort of fear rising in me. A fear that felt like a hand around my throat.

“Looks like you two found my favorite room.” Lilah Street, dressed in matching pants and tunic of gray linen, drew the pocket doors half-closed behind her. Purple moccasins peeked out beneath. Her gray hair flowed over her shoulders and jet chandelier earrings dangled from her ears. She carried a glass of red wine.

She gestured at a portrait above the marble mantelpiece of an old, white-whiskered man seated on a carved chair that resembled a gothic throne. A young girl in a blue dress stood at his shoulder. “That’s Alfred Minette, founder of the town.”

“The guy who built the mill,” I said.

“Mills,” Lilah corrected. “Two lumber, one pulp, but the only one still standing is the one by the river. That’s Juliana beside him, his first child.”

I stared up at the little girl. Her brown curls lay against a white lace collar. One small pale hand rested lightly on her father’s shoulder. Her pink lips curled in a cool smile, her eyes gazed out, flat and expressionless. The artist may have been unskilled at capturing life in his subjects, but still . . . the image of the monstrous, rotting corpse of little Juliana flashed before me, her open maw showing those needle-sharp baby teeth.

I turned away. It might be ridiculous, but even just looking at a likeness of the child made my skin crawl. Across the room, Peter glanced at the painting then at Lilah before returning his attention to the book he’d pulled from the shelf.

I smiled apologetically at her. “He doesn’t love parties.”

She sipped her wine judiciously. “The best ones never do.”

“I’m trying to get him . . . you know.” I gestured out to the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses. “Out more.”

“Psh.” Lilah sipped again. “Out is overrated. Give him time. He’ll come to it on his own terms.” She angled her body toward me. “Billie, I did hope we were friends. That you thought of me as a friend.”

“I do. Is there a problem?”

“It’s just that I understand you lost your mother recently,” she said in a quiet voice. “And I was sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me about it.”

“I didn’t lose her. Not exactly—” I stopped short. I didn’t want to cry, not here.

She set down her wineglass and opened her arms, and even though I didn’t exactly consider myself a hugger, I let her enfold me into a warm, albeit bony embrace. “I know what happened,” Lilah said. “Mere told me. She said she can’t talk to her grandmother anymore because the church she’s affiliated with doesn’t allow it. She also said you were sad about it.”

That stung. Mere had picked up on my pain without me saying anything about it. It made me wonder what else she had sensed. The discord between Peter and me, for instance.

“My father died when I was a freshman in college,” I said. “My mom was really the reason I started my first restaurant.” I didn’t elaborate.

She looked into my eyes. “If you ever want to talk—”

“Thank you,” I said briskly. “The situation hasn’t been ideal, but I’m fine. These things happen. We all have to find our own way.”

“We do.” That was all she said. I wondered if she was thinking of Wren. “There is another thing,” she said in a quiet voice. “Mere mentioned you were upset about the Catawampus.”

I felt a little thrum of uneasiness. Peter didn’t glance up from his book even though I knew he could hear our conversation. I could feel him listening.

“I wanted to explain,” she said.

“It’s fine, Lilah,” I said. “The story just scared her a little bit. That’s all.”

“I only told her because it’s an actual legend,” Lilah said. “Part of Cherokee lore.”

“It frightened her,” Peter spoke up from across the room. He closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.

“My great-grandmother was Cherokee.” Lilah addressed him archly. “I was only trying to share a bit of my heritage with the girls.”

Peter eyed her with a bemused expression. “And she told you those stories? Your great-grandmother? Around the campfire when you were a child?”

“Peter,” I said.

Lilah was still. “I never meant to offend.”

“You didn’t offend us,” I said.

Peter took a few steps closer. “No, you didn’t offend us, Lilah. You scared my daughter, and you pissed me off. We moved to Juliana to give Meredith a good life. A life as free from fear and worry and death as possible. Where she doesn’t have to hear ambulances all hours of the night. Where she doesn’t have to see police on every street corner.”

Lilah straightened. “It’s not like I just made up the story. According to the Cherokee—”

“She’s scared of her own cat now, Lilah,” Peter said. “You should consider your actions. You are caring for our daughter, for your granddaughter. They are impressionable children. You should curb that imagination of yours.”

“It’s not my imagination, it’s a real legend—” Lilah said in a level voice.

“—that I don’t want my daughter hearing,” Peter said with finality.

I cut in. “Honestly, guys, we don’t have to get into it now.” “I will not have my daughter living her life based on superstition and fear,” Peter said.

“Peter—”

He pointed a finger at the older woman. “You think you’re going to scare me with your stories?” His face had grown red and was contorted. His voice had risen in volume.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Lilah said indignantly.

“I don’t give a fuck what you were trying to do,” he snapped. “And I don’t give a fuck what nonsense went on in this town before we came here.”

I held up my hands. “Whoa, Peter. Let’s just lower the temperature here.”

“I don’t care about curses on the land or crimes your ancestors committed or any kind of Stephen King type of bullshit—” He was breathless now, squared up to Lilah, trembling with anger and sweating. I could see pinpricks of moisture on his temples. His eyes looked hard. Unrecognizable.

“Peter, please,” I begged him.

“Let me tell you this . . .” He addressed Lilah in a low, threatening voice. “Major Minette said there was an additional well on our land, one Silas Dalzell dug and used for livestock or crops. But here’s the thing. I’ve been all over that property. Checked the records at city hall and found out that no one has ever dug any other well on the property other than the original one Dalzell dug for the house.”

I gave him a sharp look. This was news to me, Peter going to city hall to look into our property without telling me. Why in the world would he have kept this information to himself?

Peter took a step closer to Lilah. “So you tell me, Ms. Street, what’s wrong with that house and that property—so wrong that the people in this town will lie to keep us from finding it out?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lilah said. She looked fearful now.

“Is something wrong with the water?” Peter demanded. “That creek is as red as rust.”

“I don’t know. But whatever Major told you, you should take with a whole saltshaker full of salt—”

Peter loomed over her, his face red. “There’s something wrong on that property, something wrong in this whole fucking town, and I want to know what it is!” he bellowed, and she shrank back.

I leaped forward and grabbed his arm, but he shook me off. He backed away, hands up, then bumped into a plaster bust on a pedestal. The bust teetered then fell, crashing to the floor and splitting into three pieces. He hesitated for one second, then stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment the room sat silent, then I turned to see Lilah’s ashen face. I sent her an apologetic look and started to stammer out some sort of an excuse. Before I could, the door creaked open again, slowly this time, and Jamie stepped into the room.

“Everybody okay in here?” he asked mildly.

I raced to gather the pieces of the bust, not wanting him to see my stricken look.

He beat me to it, picking up the biggest pieces of plaster and depositing them in a pile on a nearby table. “Billie?”

Lilah made a gesture toward the door. “I should go.”

I stood. “Lilah, stop. Please. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

She put a wrinkled hand out. It was shaking, I noticed. “Billie, it’s okay. I meant what I said. I am sorry I scared Mere, and I won’t do it again. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course, Lilah. Of course, you’re forgiven. Just give Peter some time.”

“Don’t worry about me, Billie. This isn’t the first time I’ve been yelled at. I raised three children, remember?” She sent me a sympathetic look. “I was also married to a man who used anger like a hammer.”

I felt nauseated. That wasn’t Peter. At least, it didn’t used to be.

“He’s sick,” I said to her. To Jamie. “He’s never been like this. It’s something . . . something with his sleeping. I’m getting him to the doctor.” A pathetic excuse. One I could tell neither of them bought for a second.

Lilah patted my arm. “I’m here if there’s anything I can do,” she said, then glanced at Jamie and slipped out of the library. When she was gone, Jamie gave me a quick look.

“Killer dress,” he said mildly.

I ignored the compliment. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

“Did anyone else?”

“I’m not sure. The door was open.”

I fell silent. I was burning with humiliation. Jamie, hands in his pockets, watched me. Somehow, I didn’t quite know how, I could tell Peter had left the house. I could feel it, that he’d walked down the street, gotten in the Subaru, and driven home without me. I could feel his absence right now. I was completely alone, and it opened up a chasm in me.

Jamie broke the silence. “Can I give you a ride home, Billie?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’d appreciate that.”

And then something occurred to me. Peter had gone to city hall. He was doing research. Research that would prove the people had lied to us. Research that would give him a reason for us to leave Juliana. He hadn’t told me because he wasn’t ready. He was building his case.