Not Quite Gone Page 2

  “I was hoping it might work for a day or two.” The reddish tint to his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely joking, and a little embarrassed at the fact.

  “Nope. Sorry.” I keep our fingers locked together when he tries to pull away, and this time, when his gaze meets mine, it’s serious. “I’m going to take the job, Beau. It’s too important for my career. But I promise to consider what you’ve said and to be on my guard when it comes to your mother. Okay?”

  A heavy sigh winds out of him. “It’ll have to do.”

  The way he looks away, too quickly, makes me sure there are still plenty of things about his life, about his family, that I don’t know. Maybe that’s fine. People always have secrets, no matter how much they want to believe they don’t, or how well we know them. I’m of the opinion that it’s okay—we’re still ourselves, even with the people we love.

  Love. The word brings another smile to my face.

  The thought of secrets, mostly my own, wipes it away. I take a deep breath, and when Beau looks back into my face, I know there are some secrets that are okay to keep.

  And some that aren’t, not when we have a choice.

  “My whole life, my mother told me that my father died before I was born,” I start. “She would never talk about him except to say that. I don’t think my grandparents ever knew who he was, to be honest, even though she got pregnant with me when she still lived in Heron Creek.”

  “Okay.” He’s waiting, patient, a thumb stroking the soft skin on the back of my hand. It’s more than a little distracting, but letting that be the excuse for stopping can’t happen.

  “My ex called the other day. He said that a man showed up at our apartment in Iowa City claiming to be my father.”

  “What? That’s… I don’t even know what to say.” His brow furrows, his eyebrows connecting over the bridge of his nose. “What did you say to that?”

  After being with David, a man prone to flying into possessive fits of rage after the tiniest mention of an interaction with another man, Beau’s reaction floors me. No snappish questions about why I spoke to David when he called or why I hadn’t changed my number. No pointed accusations about lingering feelings that would force me into fruitless denials.

  It reassures me further as far as the declarations of a moment before go. There’s no way to know what the future will bring, but this man? He’s worthy of risks, even ones that involve my heart.

  “I was in shock, I think. I don’t know. I gave him our address here.”

  Concern darkens Beau’s face. “I’m not sure that was the best idea.”

  “I’m not either, but it’s done. If he shows up, I’ll deal with it.”

  “You realize that you’ll need to have a way to verify his claims…”

  I put up a hand, already overwhelmed. “We’ll start with what he wants, I think, and go from there. If he even comes at all.”

  “Just to be safe, I really think you and Amelia should invest in a security system. Or a dog.” He gives me a look, tinged with amusement. “I’m quite disappointed in your ghosts’ lack of interest in scaring people away. Especially since an oddly high number of living humans seem to want to hurt you.”

  “They’re terrible at haunting, I’ll give you that.” I scoot forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling our bodies together snugly.

  His strong hands grip my hips, and Beau smiles down into my face. “Are you trying to distract me, Constituent Harper?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I just want to convince you to stay over as much as possible. Protect me.” I bat my eyelashes like I’m Mae West. “Do your civic duty and all that.”

  “You know I’m quite amenable to that request, darlin’, but I can’t be here all the time.”

  “Fine.” I pout, but not for too long. I would be inclined to dismiss his worries if it were just me in the house, but with Amelia having so many troubles with her health—mental and otherwise—and baby Jack to think about, maybe an alarm system isn’t a bad idea. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

  He kisses my nose. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Hmm. What else are you going to hold me to? Or against?”

  “I’ll let you use your imagination.” He’s playing along, but his gaze is distracted. Whatever’s on his mind pulls him away from me, into his thoughts.

  Anxiety returns, dropping deep roots of dread into my belly. My phone buzzes in my back pocket right then, nearly giving me a heart attack. I pull it out, hoping for a few seconds to compose myself enough to walk inside on gooey knees.

  The text message doesn’t do anything to help with my nerves, romantic or otherwise. It’s from Cordelia Drayton.

  I’ve spoken to Sean Dennison, our archivist at Magnolia, and he’ll be available to walk you through the current documents tomorrow morning at nine. Afterward, you’ll meet with the preservation expert at Drayton Hall, Jenna Lee. I’ll have my secretary e-mail you directions, should you need them.

  No question about my own availability or if I can start immediately. There’s a sinking feeling all around me, making my heart drop, caused by the realization that this job, while an amazing opportunity, isn’t going to be a walk in the park. And that’s without even worrying that Beau is right about Mrs. Drayton having some kind of ulterior motive in asking me to be a part of opening family documents that have been kept private for generations.

  I wish more than anything that one of us had a clue what she was up to.

  Chapter Two

  Beau and I grab coffee together at Westies before heading our separate ways the next morning. It’s Monday, which means it’s my day off at the library, but Cordelia and I are going to have to discuss a schedule going forward because leaving Millie alone to hold down the fort with Mr. Freedman isn’t an option.

  My stomach ties itself into knots on the brief fifteen-minute drive out to Magnolia Plantation. The lengthy, oak-lined drive would take anyone’s breath away—the original owners designed it to intimidate and impress—but today, my mind lodges on less appealing things. Like whether or not I’m up to this huge task. Or why my boyfriend’s mother offered me the opportunity in the first place.

  I pull into a parking space in a half-full lot. The house is huge with wraparound decks—or verandas—on two levels. The main structure at Magnolia dates back to just after the Civil War. It’s the third home to grace the property and the grandest, for sure, but the true treasure of this acreage is the gardens. They’re sweeping, lush, and unlike most of the pristine, Versailles-inspired layouts, and look as though they sprung straight from God’s own fingers. Magnolia is popular among brides and has been a staple for visitors to the area for years.

  Basically, if the Drayton family needed to—which they don’t—they could live off the proceeds from this plantation alone. They contribute to tons of charities—they own a foundation that finances scholarships and grant opportunities in an array of fields like archiving, horticulture, gardening, local history, and a bunch of other stuff. No one can accuse the Draytons of not giving back, but they certainly keep plenty.

  “Hi! You must be Graciela Harper.”

  I jerk at the sound of a voice, smacking the back of my hand into the steering wheel and slopping iced coffee onto my skirt. At least it’s dark gray.

  “Oops. Sorry about that.”

  The voice outside my window is attached to a thirty-something black man with skin so dark it shines like ebony in the morning sun and makes his teeth, displayed by a giant grin, blindingly white.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” is the genius greeting that escapes my control, but it’s a good observation. He’s got an accent that’s definitely not from south of the Mason-Dixon line.

  “Philadelphia. What gave me away? My accent or the fact that I’m sweating my balls off at nine o’clock in the morning?”

  “Accent,” I respond, unable to stop my smile.

  His ability to refer to his sweaty balls with a complete stranger puts me at ease, because t
hat’s the kind of girl I am. The man—who I’m assuming is Magnolia’s archivist since the other arriving tourists aren’t being startled to death by personal greetings—pulls open the door to my Honda. I climb out, squinting, and can’t help but be impressed by how tall and broad he is. Also, his dark eyes and…yep. Dimples.

  “I’m Sean Dennison. This was my gig until you came strolling in uninvited.” He holds out a hand, the continued smile telegraphing a no-hard-feelings undercurrent to the jab.

  I shake his hand, which would be more accurately described as a paw. “I’m Graciela, as you guessed. Did Cordelia give you a photograph of me or something?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified information,” he says seriously, eyebrows raised as he nods his head, slowly.

  A giggle tickles my lips. He’s not at all what I expected. “Funny.”

  Sean leads me away from the parking lot and toward his office in one of the converted outbuildings. His white linen shirt flaps in the slight breeze and his pressed khakis end just at the tops of his worn deck shoes. His comfort level is so complete it’s as though he’s a part of this place, and for the briefest of moments I wonder if he’s a ghost. He could be, except for the talking.

  I shake off the thought, irritated that I can’t forget my apparitions even when they’re not actually popping up out of nowhere and pointing me straight into trouble.

  Sean’s office lacks air-conditioning, which doesn’t bother me. It’s most likely because the documents and artifacts he would be working with here are better off at an ambient temperature. Maybe that’s what’s behind my own disdain for falsely cool air—a longing to be in preservation space. That doesn’t really make sense, though, since there are plenty of pieces that require lower temperatures to remain intact.

  He pushes a pile of paperwork to the side of his desk and motions me toward the seat across from it. I perch on the edge of the hard chair while he settles into his own more comfy and worn-looking one. There’s a desktop computer that’s so old it would be more at home in a local-government office. It’s covered in dust, along with the majority of the shelves and knickknacks and books lining the other three walls. It’s a dingy, unused space that would make Amelia itch and that Beau would loathe, but there’s something quaint about it. Familiar. As though ten previous curators might have used the same office, all paying more attention to their work than their comfort. As it should be, I think.

  “I’m sorry about the mess. I’m supposed to show you what we’ve got displayed at Magnolia and how it’s disseminated to the public. Then we’ll go over to Drayton Hall and I’ll introduce you to Jenna. You’ll work with her to figure out the best place to install something similar over there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Sure. On tours, though it’s been quite some time.” I don’t mention that Amelia had her wedding here. I wasn’t invited and certainly didn’t crash, since she’d made it clear she had no interest in reconciling. Hard to blame her, since the groom was the point of contention, but even though my mind knows that, my heart still struggles sometimes.

  “I’d ask for your qualifications, but first of all, Cordelia doesn’t hire anyone but the best. Second, I Googled you.” He winks. “Very impressive, although I’m not sure about the decision to forgo academia for the Heron Creek library.”

  “There were contributing factors.” I shrug, trying to ignore how hot my face feels. “Things change. I’ve recently had an article accepted for publication in The Journal of American History.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s fantastic. What’s the topic?”

  “New information about the life and death of Dr. Joseph Ladd.” I pause, but Sean has a blank expression on his face. He’s not from around here, for sure. “He’s also known as ‘the Whistling Doctor of Dueler’s Alley.’ I highly recommend Old Charleston Ghost Tours, as it happens.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve had enough local history to keep me busy with this one family, but if you’re into that sort of thing, we’ve got our fair share of supposed hauntings on the two properties, as well.”

  My heart sinks. The news shouldn’t surprise me, given the age of the property and the amount of conflict that surrounded working plantations in the early years of this country, but it’s not good news. After the ghost tour where I picked up Dr. Ladd, Leo and Amelia had both pointed out that perhaps my lingering around these hotbeds of so-called paranormal activity might not be the brightest idea.

  Except I’m feeling differently about my ghosts. As though maybe my life would seem not-quite-normal if they stopped showing up, instead of the other way around.

  “Miss Harper?”

  I blink, aware now that I’ve missed something. “Please, call me Graciela. Or Gracie. We’re going to be working together and I’m not one for formalities.”

  “Very well. I was just asking if you believe in ghosts.”

  I study his face, trying to decide whether or not he’s screwing with me. If not, he certainly didn’t do the kind of research into me that I would expect from a trained archivist. The people of Heron Creek aren’t exactly the types to take to Twitter and Facebook to broadcast the news about the latest adventures of their resident ghost hunter, but the troubles with Hadley and the moonshiners must have made the papers.

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “That surprises me, as you’re lacking that telltale Southern accent, as well.” He smiles. “I assume that’s how you guessed I’m not a local.”

  “I spent my summers here. It was enough to infect me with a love of the lowcountry and all its residents but not much of a twang.” I grope for a change of subject, unwilling to lie but not wanting to get into how I came into my views on the supernatural. Even so, I make a mental note to check out suspected hauntings on both of the Draytons’ properties and to ask Beau about them, too. “Are there official archives here at Magnolia? I remember there being letters and ledgers and that sort of thing over at Middleton Place, but not here.”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing so formal as they have over there, but then again, they don’t have a house or our magnificent gardens to distract tourists. I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you to know that most visitors are far more interested in the picturesque landscape than the Drayton family history.”

  “No,” I reply, trying to decide if the note of disgust in his voice is real or imagined. “How do you share archives here, then?”

  “Well, we have a history room with extensive information on the generations of Draytons themselves, and of course, I’m responsible for all the furniture and other antique pieces.”

  “That won’t be an option for me at Drayton.” The place is empty—preserved, not restored.

  “Smart girl. None of the rooms are staged as they would have been in period.”

  It makes me like him more, that he doesn’t go into why. It’s been a long time since someone assumed I know my shit instead of the opposite.

  It’s one of the reasons Drayton Hall has always been one of my favorite local historical properties: you can walk through the house and see layers of dust and years of wear, fingerprints and smudges. It’s a unique and wonderful place. Despite the beautiful gardens here at Magnolia and at Middleton Place, there’s something special about the simple spit of land that butts up to the Ashley River on the Drayton property.

  “I think Cordelia and the rest of the family might be open to your doing something different at Drayton Hall. Perhaps something more akin to the timeline documents on display at Middleton. There’s certainly enough information. It might be interesting to mirror the experiences of the two families, as well, given how intertwined they’ve been for centuries.”

  My blood goes cold, my body freezing up. The mention of the Middleton family alone had me tense—they’re the people trying to sue Amelia for custody of her unborn baby, the people who raised her husband, who tried to kill her—but the reminder that their family and Beau’s were
longtime friends washes me with dread.

  I swallow, hoping to high heaven that my face stays arranged in a formal, interview-type mask. “Oh?”

  “You didn’t know? It’s fairly well documented.”

  “I think I did, just forgot somewhere along the way.” My tongue feels like sawdust but it’s not a lie. The knowledge didn’t feel fresh, as though it had been unearthed, not recently learned.

  “Well, they intermarried on several occasions, worked together, shared resources and politics, things like that. It’s a rich history of mutually beneficial friendship. Shall we go?”

  I nod, unable to speak, and follow him back out into the warm September sunshine. All the way through the Magnolia house tour and during the short drive down the road to Drayton, all I can wonder is whether that mutually beneficial friendship between the Middletons and Draytons still thrives today. It’s easy to assume that it does.

  And, if so, why Beau never mentioned it.

  By the time we arrive at Drayton Hall, it’s midmorning and my shock is under control. It’s natural that, given the close association of their properties and the fact that both families have basically run this part of the country since before the Revolutionary War, the families would have been close. A Middleton signed the Declaration of Independence, for cripes’ sake, and that Middleton’s grandson signed the South Carolina Order of Secession. They were powerful families and it makes sense that they would have sought to solidify that fact by uniting.

  It didn’t have to mean Beau had been secretly betrothed to one of their daughters or something. My boyfriend took great pains to distance himself as far as possible from his own family. Surely that extended to their friends as well.

  The lined drive at Drayton is not so grand as that at Magnolia, and the house is a stately, but still huge, brick Colonial as opposed to the sweeping antebellum style favored by the later builders of Magnolia. Drayton is one of the only plantation homes that survived the Civil War intact, in part because the home was used as a Union hospital during the height of the engagements in the area. Magnolia was rebuilt afterward. All that remained of Middleton Place was one flanker building; the home had been burned by the Union troops.