In a Dark Season (4 page)

My girls are fine—Rosemary will be home as soon as Chapel Hill goes on Christmas break. She loves the classes she’s teaching—and she’s found an agent for that novel she’s been incubating for ages. Keep your fingers crossed for her.

Laurel’s still in Asheville—bartending and making art. Her latest series of paintings are oils—lovely large landscapes that have gotten some awards and, even better, are beginning to attract buyers. The paintings are almost traditional but as you look at them you realize there’s a different sensibility at work—I don’t know how to explain it; they’re a little unsettling, but really good.

Everything is much the same with me—yes, Phillip and I continue to be “an item,” as you put it. He’s a good man, Glory—funny, kind, undemanding. He’s still teaching criminal justice classes at the community college in Asheville. I hope someday you’ll make up your mind to come visit and meet him.

Elizabeth paused and stared out the window at the snow-covered peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains far to the east. It was late afternoon and though Full Circle Farm and the river valley below were in shadow, those distant peaks were gilded golden-pink with the last rays of the sun, just now beginning its plunge behind Pinnacle Mountain.

This is the first time Phillip will be here at Christmas—be part of all the family carrying-on. I wonder how he’ll like it.

For the past two years, as soon as AB Tech had let out for winter break, Phillip Hawkins had returned with his daughter Janie, a sometime student at UNCA, to the Carolina coast, where his son was in grad school. “I rent a little cottage on the beach for a week and the kids stay with me part of the time. Seth and I do some fishing and Janie runs around catching up with all her friends from high school. They have Christmas dinner with their mom and her husband….”

But this year, both Seth and Janie were in Australia: Seth working with a research team studying the Great Barrier Reef, and Janie doing a semester abroad
in whatever major she’s switched to now. I hope he won’t miss his trip to the beach. I wonder if—

A bark at the front door broke into Elizabeth’s reverie. She stared blankly at the unfinished letter before her, then scrawled a few more lines, ending with a quick
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year with love from Elizabeth,
folded the letter, and shoved it into the waiting envelope.

She started for the entryway but Phillip was already there, pulling open the blue-painted front door to admit a blast of frosty air along with Molly and Ursa, both wagging joyously and shaking the dusting of flakes from their backs. Bits of snow traced their progress across the terracotta tile of the mudroom and on to the wide oak planks of the living room. Ursa was particularly charming, sporting small globlets of ice dangling from the feathery black fur on her legs. The little ice clumps were beginning to melt and drip in the warmth of the room, and the big dog stopped, waiting patiently for the towel that Elizabeth was already going to fetch. As usual, Molly’s sleek red coat had remained pristine. The elegant hound headed at once for the hearthrug, where she composed herself to attend to cleaning the last evidences of the out-of-doors from her paws.

The telephone rang again just as Elizabeth knelt to deal with Ursa’s wet fur. Phillip picked up the instrument and handed it to her. “You get it, Lizabeth. I’ll take over with the Abominable Snowbear here.”

“Hey there, honey. I’m not
interruptin’
anything, am I?” Sallie Kate’s chuckle was rich with lewd suggestion. “A nice snowy evening like this…a cozy fire…a good-lookin’ guy like Phillip, even if he is mostly bald…Lordy, I wish Harley hadn’t gone out of town this weekend…a snow like this always makes me feel romantic.”

Elizabeth grinned. “I think I can spare you a minute or two. So, what’s up with the real estate queen of Marshall County?”

“Empress,
honey, I’m goin’ to be the real estate
empress—
if nothing don’t happen, as we say around here!”

Chapter 5

The Carrion Crow

Sunday, December 3, and Monday, December 4

P
hillip finished toweling Ursa and swiped at the wet tracks for good measure. He looked across the room at Elizabeth, seated once more at the dining table and listening intently to the voice at the other end of the line. Apparently Sallie Kate was in full flow; a nod and a brief “uh-humm” now and then seemed to be all that was required of Elizabeth. Her face, which had blossomed into a wide smile at the beginning of the conversation, had grown troubled, and her strong dark eyebrows were drawn into a small frown.

Phillip put another log on the fire, found his book, and settled back on the sofa. Covertly he studied her—this woman in his life. “And a fine figger of a woman,” his aunt Omie had pronounced. “No nonsense to her and not afraid to turn her hand to anything a-tall, I’ll wager.”

Almost too true,
he thought.
Give her a problem and she won’t let go of it.

Elizabeth seemed to feel his gaze and turned her deep blue eyes on him. The frown softened and she winked.

As happened often these days, he was suddenly bathed in a warm glow of immense and, it seemed to him, undeserved happiness—a glow that was instantly quenched by an icy chill that whispered of the fragility of life and love.

“Okay, Sallie Kate.” Elizabeth was standing now and fidgeting as if ready to end the call. “I’ll go over there tomorrow morning, if we don’t have a lot more snow.” She glanced out the window where the light was rapidly fading. “The snow’s quit and it’s clear as far as I can see…Okay, ten o’clock, unless I hear otherwise.”

She put the telephone down and came to sit beside him. Phillip laid his book aside and put his arm around her. He drew her closer, feeling the hidden strength of her tall, firm body.

“Problem?” He breathed in the clean, slightly herbal smell—shampoo?—that seemed to be an integral part of her. “You were frowning. What does Sallie Kate want you to do?”

Elizabeth leaned against him and stared into the fire. “Nola Barrett’s niece—Tracy—has been in touch with Sallie Kate. Evidently Tracy has been told that Nola’s going to require long-term care because of her mental condition. So Tracy’s hoping she can sell Nola’s house in Dewell Hill quickly to provide some ready cash until the ownership of the property at Gudger’s Stand gets sorted out. Decent care is horrendously expensive and—”

“Wait a minute—how can this niece do all that without a power of attorney or—”

“The niece says she
has
a power of attorney. Sallie Kate’ll check it out tomorrow before going any further, but she seems to think the woman’s legitimate. She’s already fantasizing about the fat commission from the sale of the stand property. Anyway, Sallie Kate said that the niece was starting to go through Miss Barrett’s things and—”

She broke off and he could feel her stiffen as she fought to hold back the tears so rarely allowed to fall.

“I just can’t believe it, Phillip. Three weeks ago Nola and I were talking about the novel she was working on. Her mind was sharp; her organization and her memory were phenomenal. And now…now
that
Nola’s gone! It’s almost worse than if she’d died.”

She pulled free of his arm and stood, her face turned away. “I need to go start supper.”

He gave her a few minutes alone in the kitchen. There was the sound of running water, a paper towel being ripped from the roll, a discreet nose-blowing. When he heard the clank of the iron skillet on the stovetop and the opening of the refrigerator door, Phillip nudged James from his lap and went to join her.

Olive oil was heating in the black iron skillet and Elizabeth, her eyes dry but slightly reddened, was chopping onions with manic determination. She looked up and smiled.

“I thought I’d do some shrimp and pasta—quick and easy. And I never answered your question, did I?” She swept the onion into the skillet and began to break cloves off a head of garlic. “What Sallie Kate wants me to do is to go see Nola’s niece tomorrow. Evidently this Tracy knows that I was interested in Nola’s quilts—she wants to find out where to sell them and what sort of prices to ask.”

In rapid succession six cloves of garlic were minced on the scarred cutting board and added to the sautéing onions.

“I hate it, Phillip. It’s like crows picking over a carcass. But in this case…” He watched as Elizabeth turned her attention to a bulbous section of gingerroot, quickly and carefully peeling away pale brown skin from the knobby surface. An enticing smell wafted through the kitchen as she cut off chunks, fitted them into a garlic press, and squeezed the pulp into the pan. “…in this case, the carcass is still alive.”

Phillip took wineglasses from the Hoosier cabinet and uncorked the bottle of red wine that waited there on the cabinet’s pull-out metal shelf. He filled the glasses, handed one to Elizabeth, then seated himself on the cushioned bench in the corner of the kitchen.
Put there so that people can lend moral support to the cook—without getting in her way,
Elizabeth had told him.

“Maybe you can suggest to the niece that she’s moving a little too quickly—that her aunt may recover.” He found himself starting to run his free hand over his smooth bald scalp—a gesture Elizabeth had teased him about more than once.
I can always tell when you’re worried: up comes that hand—
and revised the movement to a quick tug at his earlobe. “Who knows, this may be a passing…aberration.”

She didn’t seem to hear him as she gave the contents of the frying pan a savage stir, reduced the heat, and moved on to the salad preparation, the untasted glass of wine on the counter before her. A few scallions were washed free of grit, shaken dry, and slapped down on the chopping block. Over the staccato tap of the knife, he could hear her saying to herself, “It’s that damn house—Nola said it was evil. What was it she told me? It was like a line from that old song—‘It’s been the downfall of many poor girls…’ or something like that. Nola hated that awful place—why would she go
there
?”

Poor Phillip! What abject nonsense I was thinking and talking last night!

The menacing clouds and dreary atmosphere of the day before had been replaced by a clear blue sky. Playful sunlight sparkled on the river and winked from the melting snow.

As Elizabeth drove across the bridge at Gudger’s Stand, she looked up at the empty house that had always appeared so ominous. Suddenly it seemed different—innocuous, even helpless—a pathetic, moldering hulk in need of vigorous refurbishment.

Good god! There I was going on to Phillip about it being an evil place. Was I channeling Stephen King or what? It’s just a house, for heaven’s sake. It’s nothing to do with what happened to Nola. There must be some physiological explanation—a brain tumor or…I don’t know, maybe an aneurism or something. Surely they’ll do some testing. And then they’ll find what’s wrong and fix it. This niece or whatever she is can’t just write Nola off like that.

A feeling of optimism filled her and she gave a friendly wave to the grizzled old man who was just emerging from a derelict brick building at the side of the road. He jerked his head back in response and continued on with setting out dishes of food for the cats that were pouring out of their hiding places in several junk cars to cluster around his rubber boots. As she passed, Elizabeth smiled to see one particularly bold calico leap onto the man’s shoulder as he leaned down to place a dish on the cracked pavement.

Smoke was rising from the chimney of Nola’s little stone cottage and a generic-looking car—white, with rental plates—was pulled up beside the back porch. Elizabeth made her careful way along the stepping-stones, wet with melted snow, to the front porch. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door flew open.

Divested of her heavy jacket, the young woman Elizabeth had last seen climbing into the ambulance with Nola Barrett was painfully thin. Tight black jeans and an acid green sweater revealed an almost skeletal body while lank hennaed hair pulled back in a short ponytail accentuated the bony planes of the woman’s pallid face. At the end of her sharp, reddened nose quivered a small, clear bead of moisture. Swiping a crumpled tissue at the emerging drop, the young woman motioned Elizabeth in with a jerk of her head.

“Ms. Goodweather? Tracy Barrett. Come on in; it’s freezing out there. Excuse the mess. We’re trying to decide what to do with all this junk.” She nodded toward the many cardboard boxes piled high with books. From the back of the house came the sound of heavy furniture scraping across the floor.

Fighting back a feeling of intense dislike for this
person
who was acting so quickly to disassemble what was left of Nola Barrett, Elizabeth drew a deep breath.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tracy. What can you tell me about Nola? Mr…. or I guess it’s
Reverend
Morton called and said that she was being moved to—”

“The Layton Facility. Just outside Ransom.” The thin young woman’s face was impassive as she moved toward a stack of quilts resting on the table where Nola Barrett’s laptop had been.

“I was wondering…Reverend Morton told me that Nola’s not badly hurt, but what about her mental state? How do the doctors explain—”

“The old lady’s completely bugshit. Out to lunch and not likely to come back.” The speaker loomed in the kitchen door, his massive shoulders almost as wide as the opening. “Trace, what d’you want me to do with all that shit in the cabinets?”

“Just leave it till I can look at it, Stone.” A look of annoyance flashed across the thin face and was replaced by a carefully calibrated smile. “My boyfriend’s helping me with the heavy stuff. Stone, this is the lady who knows about quilts—Aunt Nola’s friend Ms. Goodweather.”

Stone? Can that be his real name? Like Rocky? Good grief, this is one big boy!
Elizabeth tried not to stare at the young man who seemed be built along the lines of a midsized truck.

“Nice to meet you—” she began, but Stone merely glanced at her and turned back toward the kitchen with a bob of his shaven head and an inarticulate mumble that might have been an acknowledgment of her greeting. The sound of heavy objects being scraped across the floor resumed.

“We’re trying to get this place cleared out so it can be sold or rented. And we’ve got to get back to Raleigh by Thursday night, so we don’t have much time.” Tracy reached for the top quilt—a green and red pattern appliquéd on a white background. “Is this one worth anything?”

The young woman’s impatience was obvious, as was her lack of interest in the quilts.
I could tell her anything—offer her a hundred dollars for the lot of them and she’d probably jump at it,
Elizabeth thought, sorely tempted by the beautiful heirlooms that Nola had preserved so lovingly.
But, as Nixon said, that would be wrong. Oh hell.

“Well, you need to understand I’m not an expert. But I do know a little about old quilts. This one’s a traditional Pomegranate pattern, probably from the 1880s, give or take twenty years. The condition is good…some fading in the green fabrics—what they call fugitive dyes and a little yellowing of the unbleached muslin. But—”

“If I took it to a flea market, what kind of price should I put on it? That’s all I need to know.”

Shocked at the suggestion, Elizabeth was quick to insist, “Oh, no, don’t take it to a flea market. You wouldn’t get near what it’s worth. A few years ago I saw a similar one priced over a thousand dollars in a fancy antique shop in Asheville. But I have no idea what a dealer would pay you—maybe half that. And fashions change—quilts may not be as collectible now as they were.”

Elizabeth bent down to study the red appliquéd circles and the faded green crescents that had been delicately stitched onto a creamy white background. With a careful finger she traced the tiny quilting stitches that crisscrossed the fabric.

“Such a lot of work. You know, your aunt—have I got that right?—called this one the Lyda quilt.”
My great-grandmother made that one,
Nola had said. “But you probably know that—it being your family too.”

The young woman, evidently aware of the unspoken challenge in Elizabeth’s words, fixed her with a cool gray stare. “Nola was my mother’s sister—but we haven’t been close in a long time. If she ever showed me these quilts, I’ve forgotten.”

The icy gaze, Nola Barrett’s eyes looking out of a different, younger face, was unsettling. Still, Elizabeth persisted. “Are you sure you want to part with family heirlooms like these? They’re undoubtedly worth something to a quilt collector but—”

The younger woman brushed Elizabeth’s words aside and unfolded a second quilt. “I’m not sentimental about family stuff anymore. Heirlooms or not, if they’re worth a buck or two, they’re going to be sold. Do you have any idea how much long-term care for that crazy old woman is likely to cost? If only she could have managed to find the old man’s will.”

Elizabeth stood in the quiet of her empty house. Behind the leafless trees at the far left of the eastern horizon, the full moon was rising with slow majesty, its great disc looming startlingly large and almost transparent against the rose and lavender of the evening sky.

She had opened her mouth to call Phillip to come look at the moon; then she remembered—Phillip, as was his custom on weeknights, was at his house in Weaverville.
Closer to AB Tech,
he had explained,
and in winter there’s less chance I’ll have trouble with snow on the roads.

This was undoubtedly true, but Elizabeth suspected that the chief reason Phillip maintained the little rented bungalow was because some months ago she had declined his proposal of marriage. Their growing closeness had suffered briefly from her refusal.

You know I love you, Phillip,
she had said.
Will a few words and a license make any difference to the way we feel about each other?

He had not pressed the issue but had withdrawn briefly, no longer routinely spending weekends and holidays with her. Gradually, however, and much to her relief, the part-time relationship had resumed.
Thank god, he didn’t just bow out altogether. I love him and want him in my life—I just don’t see why we need to be married. But I wish he were here to see this moonrise.