Page 37

October 5, 1925

I walk the uphill mile to the Basin Park Hotel and book a room. I need to organize my thoughts, buy some time, and make a plan. Though my head pounds from exertion, I remember everything now, clarity coming to me with every passing hour. Beckett was right: Weston did this to me. He nearly killed me.

I have dinner brought to my room, then lie down to take a nap. When I wake up, it’s sunset. A cheerful banjo tune streams through my open window, along with the tantalizing scent of popcorn. I rise, relieved that my headache has abated. I pull my cardigan on over my dress and slip my oxfords on, drawn by the music. When I go out to the street, I see a plethora of electric lights twinkling in the dusk. There’s a carnival in the park. Booths line the curved wall below the bandstand, offering all sorts of handmade wares. One booth in particular catches my eye—a simple, hand-stitched tent of patched calico fabric. A sign hangs from a tree made of blue bottles out front: Granny Woman Charms, Herbal Cures, Fortunes Read .

My curiosity piques as I approach the tent. Figures and shapes woven from grapevine and willow dangle from the makeshift awning, along with bundled, dried herbs. A woman with bobbed, fiery red hair sits outside the tent’s opening in a rocking chair, holding an equally redheaded child. The woman smirks at me, her eyes skimming over my clothes, marking my measure. “Mama!” she yells over her shoulder. “You got a customer!”

“You don’t have to yell so loud, Valerie, I’m right here.”

A striking woman with long silver hair emerges from the tent, her deep-blue eyes creasing at the corners as she smiles at me. “Well, come on in, child. Don’t be shy. I can see right now why you came.”

I follow her into the tent, which is lit with a dim combination of kerosene lanterns and beeswax candles. Spicy herbal scents surround me. A round table with two chairs sits in the middle of the tent, with a deck of cards stacked on top, larger than a typical deck. Tarot cards. I’ve seen them before, but never had a reading.

“We don’t need to bother with a reading,” the woman says, noting my gaze. “Your aura is pitch black. How long have you been under this oppression?”

“What?”

“The demon spirit, sugar. How long has he been bothering you?”

“I don’t know ... if that’s what he is.”

“Whether he’s a demon or a vengeful spirit who once lived, he’s put a seduction on you. I can sense it.” She rummages around in a tall apothecary chest, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Some people mince their words about these matters, but I’ll tell you straight. Butter wouldn’t melt in his honey mouth, would it?” She laughs. “His kind is mighty sweet, until you get on his bad side. Oh yes. I know just what you need.” She motions to the table, tells me to sit. I drop into the chair, stunned.

She slides a burlap pouch toward me, tied with twine. I pick it up. Sniff it. It smells like sulfur.

“That’s asafetida and cemetery dirt. Sprinkle it on all the thresholds, say a prayer, anoint the door lintels and posts with oil. Any oil will do, though some say olive oil is the best since that’s what our Lord was most likely to use.” Next, she slides a coin-shaped medal on a chain toward me. “You’re Catholic?”

I nod, speechless.

“Here’s Saint Michael. You wear that, and you don’t ever take it off. Do you know the prayer?” I nod again. “Pray it every night before you go to bed.”

“These charms will protect me from him?”

“Yes.”

Protection is a start. But I want more than protection. “How do I get rid of him?”

“Give me your hand.”

I reach out hesitantly and take her extended hand. Her touch is soft and warm. Comforting. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. A few moments later, she lets go of my hand. “I wish I had better news for you.”

Dread builds to a low hum, at one with the constant ringing in my right ear. I’ve never met this woman a day before in my life, but I have the feeling she knows everything about me with a single touch. “Go on. Tell me.”

“The women in your family are under a curse. A spiritual attachment that goes back for generations.” She closes her eyes, opens them again, a look of distant, personal pain on her face. “This entity lingers because of something that happened down your family line. A mistake someone made in the past. This spirit wants vengeance. The only way you’ll ever be free of him is by discovering the root of the curse. You must confront the wrongs of the past and make atonement—or the one who wronged him must, if they’re still alive.” She presses her lips together. “Have you had an easy life, honey?”

I think of my long line of losses, all the heartaches and hardships stacking one atop another like masonry and brick. “No. I haven’t.”

“Just as I thought.” Her eyes slide from my face to my hands, which she takes in her own, gently squeezing them. “Find a way to break the attachment and give this spirit the peace he seeks, and you’ll be free, along with all the generations that come after you. You’ll find your answers in the past.” She stands. “Those things I gave you will help protect you in the meantime. If you need more of that powder, or anything else, you can find me up the road in Tin Mountain. Deirdre Werner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Werner. What do I owe you?”

She waves me off. “It’s ‘miss,’ and you don’t owe me a thing. I never charge for what I do. I’m called to help others. But if you want, you can leave whatever feels right to you with Val out front.”

I emerge into the night, blinking, and offer the redheaded woman a silver dollar. Her eyes light up. She snatches it from me and deposits it in the bucket at her side. “Thank you kindly. Mama help you?”

“I think so.”

“Good. You come back anytime, ma’am, you hear me?”

I walk back to the hotel, stunned by the granny woman’s words. Her uncanny knowledge. I’ve heard of demonic possession—something the esoteric side of my church recognizes, but seldom speaks about openly. But she used a different word: “oppression.” And that’s what it feels like. A heavy burden, following me at every turn. With some surprise, I realize the heaviness has always been there—a constant presence in my life. The thought of Weston weighs on me with visceral fear and dread. I got “on his bad side” when I chose Beckett, and he’d nearly made me pay with my life. While he seems to be tied to his cursed portrait, with me gone, he’ll surely turn his anger elsewhere—onto the people I care about. Harriet. Marguerite. Beckett. Or some other poor, unwitting girl in the future. Someone like Sybil.

After hastily repacking my suitcase, I check out of the hotel and ask the desk clerk to call for a cab. The granny woman said that the answers to the curse could be found in the past. And I know just where to find them.

Harriet opens the front door at my knock. She rolls her eyes heavenward. “Oh Lord. You’re back.”

I set my suitcase on the floor and take off my hat, hanging it on the coatrack by the door. “I am. And I’m staying. I can’t desert Marguerite. It’s not right.” I take in Harriet’s tiredness, which she wears beneath her eyes and in her slow, sluggish movements. “Besides, Harriet, you’re worn to a frazzle. You can’t do this alone. Your family needs you, too.”

“Doc Gallagher’s nurse has been helping some.” She shakes her head. “Beckett won’t be happy about you being here, though.”

“I know. But he and I have been at odds before. Nothing I’m not prepared for. Where’s Aunt Marg?”

“In the library. Working. It’s all she wants to do these days. I can barely get her to stop long enough to eat. But she’s been feeling better lately. More lucid. Folks often rally toward the end. Can I get you some tea?”

“Absolutely not. Go lie down. Get some rest. And then I want you to go home. Take a few days off, with pay. I can manage. I just want to carry on and do what needs to be done.” Apart from my troubles with Weston, I still need to find Marguerite’s will. In the hospital, I was afraid Felix would swoop in and do his best to gain control of the estate. There are matters both corporeal and spiritual that need my attention, and I don’t intend to waste any more time.

I put my suitcase in the room across from Marguerite’s, where Pauline slept, then try the adjoining door to Beckett’s room. It’s unlocked. The large, four-poster bed is made, corners tucked neatly, a pair of worn, slouching boots sitting on the floor in front of his nightstand. I rest my hand on his pillow, where the slight indentation of his head is still visible. An earthy sweetness permeates the room. Clover, dried leaves, and sunshine. His smell. I hope, with everything in me, that he’ll understand why I’ve come back. That we can resume our affection and he’ll accept my love. Because I know that’s what this is, now. Love. Something worth fighting for.

Marguerite is painting when I enter the library. The portrait of Hugh is finished. It sits on an easel by the window, its vibrant autumn colors blending with the changing leaves outside. After witnessing their tryst by the creek, and the promise Hugh made to Marguerite, my grandmother’s betrayal bears more weight. Why did she work so hard to drive Hugh and Marguerite apart, when she well knew the pain of hiding her own forbidden love?

Marguerite is working on the image of the young girl again, humming softly to herself. I approach her quietly, clearing my throat to get her attention.

She turns, her green eyes widening. She looks a decade younger, the wrinkles on her face diminished, a youthful glow blooming on her cheeks. “Sadie! You’re back. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m just fine. Only had a little headache. That’s all. You’re looking well, Aunt Marg. Did you get some of that Tanlac Tonic from the ads?”

She chuckles. “No. But I’ve been sleeping better.”

“Who’s this?” I ask, motioning to her canvas. “She looks familiar.”

“Oh, that’s because she’s me, darling.”

I lean closer, admiring her work. “I can see that now. How old were you here?”

“Thirteen. I started this one a few years ago as a practice study. Now that all the others are done, I want to finish it before the autumn light fades away.” She looks out the window. “The days are getting shorter. The sun already so low.”

“Winter will be here before we know it.”

“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “And this one will be my last.”

“Don’t say that.”

She shrugs, dabs her brush in a bright crimson. “A person just knows these things.” She turns back to her work. “Beckett is working in the rose garden. You should go to him. I’ll stay right here, I promise. I want to get this part finished before it gets dark.”

“Harriet’s lying down. You’re sure you won’t go wandering?”

“Yes, dear. I’m sure.” She lifts a small porcelain bell from the folding table that holds her brushes. “I have this bell if I need anything. It rings loudly enough you can hear it from the rose garden.”

I leave her to her work and go out the french doors to the rear terrace. Beckett is cutting back the roses, pruning the spent flowers one last time before the cold sets in. He looks up as I approach, an inscrutable expression on his face. I cross my arms over my waist, awkwardly.

“I saw the cab. Why did you come back, Sadie?”

I sit on the ground, my legs folded to the side. “What would you have done if you were me? Really, Beckett. Don’t lie.”

He turns back to the roses, pinching a thorny branch between the blades of his pruners. “I don’t know.”

“You’d come back. If not for me, for Marguerite. You know you would.”

He looks at me, pain darting from his eyes. “I can’t protect you, Sadie. Do you know what it was like for me, watching that happen to you?”

“Yes. But I’m the one who nearly died. I’m afraid, too. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But I talked to someone. And she gave me some answers. Charms—to help protect me from Weston.”

“Charms?”

“Yes. I saw a granny woman,” I say. “She told me Weston’s spirit is restless because of something that happened in the past. A mistake. Someone in our family must have wronged him. That’s why he’s vengeful. Angry. She said that if I use these charms and wards, it will protect us.”

“And you believe her?” He shakes his head. “Sadie, the only way you’ll be safe is if you leave. I’ve told you that, a thousand times.”

“You say that, but what if I go back to Kansas City and that accursed portrait turns up there? Who’s to say he won’t follow me? He didn’t leave my grandmother alone. Not until she died. This entire situation confounds logic.” I stand, my chin lifted. “But whether it takes charms or spells, or ten thousand prayers on my rosary, I refuse to live the rest of my life in fear. I’m going to find a way to break this curse. Because that’s what it is.” I stand there as he looks at me in silence, my breath coming in sharp pants.

“If you’re determined to stay, I can’t stop you. But we can’t go back to how we were, Sadie. It’s too dangerous for you. Every time he attacked you, it was after we were together.”

“But can’t you see that’s why I want to fight? To try. Because I can’t bear not being with you, Beckett. This is our home. You are my home.” My fists clench at my sides, my frustration welling at his stubbornness. “While you decide whether or not I’m worth fighting for, I’m going to fight for myself. For us.”

I turn and walk away, squeezing my eyes shut against my angry tears.

Late that night, I arrange Marguerite’s finished paintings side by side in the library. Hugh, Iris, Christine. I try not to think about the other portrait, hidden somewhere on this property, in a place only Beckett knows. I hope to never lay eyes on it again. I spread the asafetida powder across the threshold, finger the amulet around my neck, and whisper my prayer to Saint Michael. If what I’m attempting works, chances are I’ll encounter Weston, somewhere in Marguerite’s past. I need all the protection I can get—there, and in the present, too, where my vulnerable body will remain while my consciousness travels beyond the temporal plane.

I stare at the images of Marguerite’s lovers, in turn, perched on their easels. I could attempt to go back the furthest in time again—to Hugh’s time, in the brightness of his and Marguerite’s youth. But when I touch his painting, there’s no spinning sensation of vertigo like I’ve had before. No invitation to enter. I move to Iris’s portrait. Weston mentioned that she was once his ally, but something changed. He insinuated Iris was party to some sort of betrayal and had manipulated Marguerite, yet Marguerite still held Iris in fondest regard. There was something missing. Some obscure thread that bound everything and everyone together. And at this point, I trust Iris to show me the truth more than I trust Weston’s words. I tentatively touch the surface of the painting, which ripples like water on a pond. I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes, and let oblivion take me.