Page 14

July 23, 1925

I walk arm in arm with Marguerite down Spring Street, our steps small and measured. Eureka Springs was built to suit the lay of the land, without subjugation. The streets bend at odd angles and loop around one another, with uneven walkways and precariously narrow steps that threaten to turn ankles and send a person tumbling into the gullies below. Though quaint and picturesque, this is a true mountain town, made for hardy folk. Once more, I wonder at Marguerite’s willingness to leave behind her plush, cosseted life in Kansas City for a place like this. When she first came here, it was little more than a wilderness camp, accessible only by stagecoach, where well-to-do ladies came to take the waters in the town’s landmark springs, then journey back to their richly appointed lives elsewhere.

Not Marguerite. She had stayed—had carved out a place for herself among these pioneers.

“Right there, up ahead. That was where the sanitorium used to be. The one Papa sent me to in 1879.” Marguerite points to a three-story building up the street, now a store, its stone shoulders hunched against the hill at an angle. “The original building burned in the Spring Street fire. It was one of the first buildings here. They housed us on the top floor, to make sure the consumption wouldn’t spread, and so we’d get the full benefit of the sun.”

“I never knew you had tuberculosis.”

Marguerite nods, pausing to catch her breath. “Yes. I was one of the lucky ones. I survived. Many didn’t. I credit the waters for my recovery. This was where I met Iris. Where I grew into my art.” She points again to the building. “There was a window there, on the third floor. The morning light was perfect for sketching. I started out drawing the mountains. Those sketches turned into the first landscape I ever sold.”

“How long were you here?”

“Almost a year. Then Iris and I traveled together, studying art.”

“Did you ever go back to Kansas City?”

“Only once. For Claire’s funeral.” Marguerite’s tone stiffens. “I felt like a stranger among my family at that point. Papa died two years later. I had to make it on my own after that.”

We walk on for a bit, Marguerite pointing out landmarks and the special places tethered to her memories. I’m eager to set my roots down here, just as Marguerite did all those years ago. We’re both outcasts—willful in our ways. I’d wavered a bit in my fortitude, out of fear, but now I’m resolute. It’s been less than a week since my arrival, after all. Barely enough time for Marguerite to learn to trust me. Perhaps, with patience, her moods will stabilize as she grows more accustomed to my presence.

As we near the corner where the mercantile sits, its north wall bearing an ominous advertisement for Blocksom’s mortuary services, Beckett pulls alongside us in the Duesenberg, its cloth top rolled down. On the sidewalk, heads turn at the sight of the car. Melva’s groceries sit in the back, taking up more room than I anticipated. “If you find a radio you like, Mr. Blocksom can send one of his delivery boys to bring it up to the house after the store closes,” Beckett says, as if he’s read my thoughts. “He does that sort of thing all the time.”

“You mean when he’s not embalming bodies, he also runs this store?”

Marguerite titters. “Folks do a little bit of everything in a town this small, my dear.”

“I’ll wait out here for you,” Beckett says, turning off the engine. “Take your time.”

We go in, the bell on the door ringing a merry greeting. Counters and shelves lined with every sort of dry good one could imagine are on offer—from wire whisks and snow shovels to feathered hats and shoes. It’s a neat, well-stocked store. I can see myself coming here often to peruse the shelves full of books and fashion magazines. On the way to the furniture and appliance department at the back of the store, I see a stunning garnet-and-pearl lavalier on a mannequin near the jewelry counter. A doe-eyed shopgirl looks up as we approach, noting my gaze. “Would you like to try it on?”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five,” she answers. “They’re real South Sea pearls, miss.”

“I’d better not.” I quickly turn away, murmuring an apology. Ted would have bought that necklace for me without a thought. But those days are over now. Spending twenty-five dollars of my meager savings on something so frivolous would be foolish. I think of the diamond ring hidden in the toe of my oxfords at the bottom of the wardrobe. I need to pawn it. I should. But a part of me still hopes that Ted will come to his senses. That he’ll sweep through town one day, in search of me, and make everything right. It’s a silly fantasy I must let go.

“You look sad, Sybil,” Marguerite says, tugging on my arm. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, Auntie. And I’m Sadie, remember?” I shudder at her use of Sybil’s name, knowing about the unfortunate girl’s demise.

We find the radios along the back wall, from tabletop sets to large cabinet models with built-in gramophones that Marguerite deems ostentatious—an ironic statement from a woman who owns the most ostentatious automobile in town. We settle on a modest RCA Radiola, which a young man named Floyd carefully wraps for us in brown paper and twine and brings to the car while Marguerite pays. I sit with the radio perched on my lap the entire way up the mountain, holding on extra tight as Beckett navigates the hairpin turns.

When we unwrap the radio in the parlor, Melva lets loose a squeal of delight, clapping her hands. “Land sakes! We’ll be living the high life now, won’t we?”

Marguerite chooses a place of honor on the sideboard next to the piano, moving family portraits and carefully arranging a velvet runner on the cherrywood surface. Beckett sets the radio down as she directs, then plugs it in. A loud screech emits from the speakers, making Melva shriek again. I can only imagine what Harriet will think when she returns to work.

Beckett sifts through dead air for a signal, the static dissolving as a smooth-voiced radio announcer comes on, delivering the news of the week: there was a solar eclipse in the southern hemisphere, Italy and Yugoslavia signed a treaty allowing immigration to Dalmatia, and the Scopes Monkey Trial had ended in Dayton, Tennessee, with schoolteacher John Scopes found guilty of violating the Butler Act due to his teaching of the Theory of Evolution.

At this bit of news, Marguerite scoffs. “Why should it matter? I say let the children learn about Darwin’s theories and come to their own conclusions.”

“I’d agree, Auntie,” I say.

The announcer breaks for an advertisement espousing the youthful glow imparted by Tanlac Tonic.

“I should get some of that tonic from the druggist,” Melva muses. “Sounds miraculous.”

I stifle a giggle and notice Beckett looking at me from across the room, an inscrutable expression on his face. I meet his gaze and then look away, suddenly shy, remembering the undeniable crackle of tension between us this morning.

Outside, the skies have grown darker, and thunder rumbles in the distance. More rain. Beckett rises from kneeling on the floor. “I’d better garage the car,” he says. “I’ll bring your groceries in, Melva.”

But Melva isn’t listening. She sits transfixed by the radio, her hand propped beneath her chin. Beckett shakes his head as he passes by me. “You’ll be lucky to get any work out of her now.”

“I think you’re right.” We share a conspiratorial smile.

“Come out with me,” he says. “I have something to ask you.”

“But Marguerite ...” I glance at my aunt, who seems docile and occupied at the moment, yet I’m all too aware of how quickly things can change.

“Just to the porch.”

I follow him, my curiosity piqued. Outside, the air is thick with the scent of rain. A chill wind picks up, flipping the sugar maple’s leaves from green to silver. Beckett leans against the porch rail, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle. “I’ve been thinking about Marguerite’s delusions. The violent spell you told me about.”

“Yes?”

“I spoke to Harriet when she called this morning. We both think it would be best if I started sleeping in the house every night. In case you need my help. It’s something I should have done a long time ago. Marguerite was always worried about what people might say, but we’re beyond that now. She’s getting more frail.”

While I’m sure his intentions are noble, the proudest part of me, the part of me that still has something to prove, rises in protest. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Don’t you think it’ll be better if I’m near at hand? For your sake as well as hers?”

“Because you’re worried about Marguerite, or about me embarking on a love affair with a ghost and tumbling from a cliff?” I choke back a laugh. “Can’t you see how ridiculous that sounds?”

“It wasn’t ridiculous when my cousin died. Or when Marguerite accosted you with that knife.” He grows somber. Serious. “I have reasons for being worried, Sadie. About both of you.”

I rankle at his use of my Christian name. At his presumptuousness. At his insinuation that I can’t protect myself.

I pull myself tall, squaring my shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Hill, but I can manage Marguerite on my own just fine. And I can assure you I have my wits about me when it comes to men—ghostly or otherwise.”

Rain begins to beat the veranda roof in a sharp staccato as we regard one another in stiff silence, the prior warmth in his eyes gone. “I’d better see to the car.” Beckett pushes off the porch rail and stalks down the steps, a hand pressed to the small of his back. The change in the weather must pain him, as Marguerite mentioned. I watch as he cranks the roof over the Duesenberg’s carriage and drives away, tires spitting gravel as I stand there, feeling foolish as a schoolgirl.