Ghosts of Graveyards Past (31 page)

He smiled, a subtle turn of the mouth she felt was just a hint of the real emotion inside. At times, she would glimpse it, this part of him kept hidden beneath the serious demeanor. The reason his neighbors labeled him a recluse, perhaps.

They walked on, passing a band of musicians who coaxed ancient tones from pipes and drums.

She aimed her camera towards the spot where a woman in old-fashioned garb demonstrated the art of making corn husk dolls.

Con spoke. “Did you find anything? The other day you mentioned something about the doctor's notebook. I thought maybe it shed more light on the grave's connection with the plague.”

“Yes—but not exactly,” she admitted. “There was a problem with the end. Notably, that it didn't have one. At least not in that particular book.” Forgetting they were part of a crowded festival, she began recounting the details of the doctor's final entries.

He raised his brows at the mention of the symbol as a prophecy mark and the doctor's speculation that she might know the cause of the dreaded plague.

With a laugh, Jenna's narrative ceased. “Sorry,” she said. “That was probably more detail than you were looking for. I get carried away when someone asks me a question, since most people don't find dusty old manuscripts all that interesting.”

“I can't see anyone not being interested in what you just told me.” A trace of warmth was buried in the gravelly tones. “Whether you find the answer or not, I think your readers will care about those stories as much as you do.”

“Really?” She wished she could know that for certain. It was the town's reaction she worried about most and whether they would accept anything but absolute proof that their legend was just that—a legend and nothing more. “As far as answers go,” she said, “I may be closer to finding one than I hoped. Mrs. Maudell has agreed to let me see her famous stash of relics. In fact, I think she's more excited about the idea than I am, that the true story behind the legend has just been lying somewhere, forgotten.”

He looked somewhat doubtful on this point. “Josephine's always been fairly protective of anything to do with the town's history,” he said. “A lot of her stuff was on loan to the museum when it burned. It's made her hesitate to trust anyone else with it. People say she'll change her will and leave it to the historical society someday, although she doesn't think the younger generation looks after the collection properly.”

“Maybe she's tired of keeping her distance,” Jenna suggested. “The urge to share what she knows with others must still be there somewhere, deep down.”

Con didn't say anything, his face angled away from hers in the glow of the clear lights.

From another part of the square, someone recited the lyrics to Robert Herrick's poem “The Hag”, while a costumed figure pranced through the aisles, scaring children with their fake crooked nose and long nails. A fiddler had joined in with the pipes and drums, and cider was ladled into cups for eager customers outside a vendor's stand.

“Aren't you cold?” Jenna wondered, noticing the casual look that suited him, if not for the dropping temperatures.

He glanced down, as if forgetting he wore no extra layer over the long-sleeved shirt. Shrugging as he said, “My coats take a beating that doesn't exactly suit them for public appearances. Too many afternoons in the workshop or the garden. That's where I spent most of yesterday actually, winterizing the plants.”

His wife's herb collection. The idea struck her as one he wouldn't want to talk about, based on their previous conversations.

“I think I'm starting to get the hang of it. At least, some of the plants bloomed this time instead of shriveling on the vine. Even the wildflowers looked better, so I'm making progress somewhere.”

“I have a ficus tree in my living room,” she said. “My neighbor waters it for me while I'm gone, but I think it prefers full-time company. I notice it perks up when I'm dictating a manuscript or playing the stereo…” She trailed off beneath his intent look, realizing how empty it made her home life sound. “I guess there's a lot of quiet to fill when I'm not on the road,” she admitted. “Most of my friends juggle family with work, and my parents are a bus ride away in Annapolis. Which isn't a bad thing, really, since it helps me look to church for a sense of belonging.”

“You're not one for subtle hints, are you?”

There was a gleam of humor in the remark, prompting Jenna to push it a little further. “Do you think you'll ever go back?” she asked. “Seek out any relationships with people again? Faith has been a comfort, you said. It could only help, having encouragement from others who share the walk.”

“Well, I came to the festival, which didn't seem possible. I guess anything could happen, given enough time.”

She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, wishing they were somewhere a little more private. It was hard to stay focused amidst the sights and sounds of Halloween mischief and old Celtic symbols.

But then, hadn't the same proved true of their wilderness hike? She kept returning to that moment, unable to shake the strong attraction that drew her towards him. Perhaps the same was true of his feelings, explaining why they found themselves in the same place tonight.

They turned the corner, Jenna letting out a cry of recognition for one of the artifacts displayed outside the historical society's booth. A coat and trousers dyed the color of ash, its wool fabric badly moth-eaten. “It's the soldier's uniform,” she explained. “Mrs. Maudell said it would be here.” She drew closer, studying the garment she had examined with such reverence at the woman's house.

The case reflected her image beside Con's, their hands almost touching as the crowd who went by pushed them closer together. “Thanks for being here,” she said, her glance finding his in the glass. “I know you hate all this, with the crowds and the silly superstitions...”

“I don't hate it. There's a lot about it I would change, maybe, but other aspects have value. The sense of tradition, the craftsmanship. The knowledge of the past.”

“Is that why you came?” She held her breath, regretting the question. When he didn't answer, she started to apologize, only to feel a hand folding itself gently around hers.

“I'm sorry,” he said, blue eyes seeking her gaze, this time face-to-face. “I might be a little rusty at this.”

Warmth trickled through her from the unexpected touch. She smiled. “Me, too.”

No other words seemed necessary, their fingers locked together as they moved slowly back into the crowd.
How can I feel so close to someone I just met?
She bit her lip, worried that her heart was getting ahead of her in the way her expectations did for certain projects. In this case, the two were linked, making it even more difficult to know how she should handle it.

“Have your palm read,” called a woman in a tattered cloak and gray wig. “Learn your fortune in life and love,” she said, with a small wink in Con's direction.

He merely smiled, pulling Jenna's hand towards another path. Their steps took them to a booth where lush, green plants spilled from hanging baskets and potted containers of all sizes. Behind the counter was the woman from the herb shop—Amelia, as her name tag reminded Jenna.

She wore a puzzled smile at the sight of their approach. “Well, this is a surprise,” she said, nodding to Con. “I guess strange things
do
occur at Halloween. I haven't seen you at one of these events since…well, high school, at least.”

“That long?” Jenna couldn't help the surprise in her voice. She had assumed he stopped attending it for the same reason as everything else. His wife's death apparently had nothing to do with this particular aversion for the town's celebration.

Leaning against the desk, he let his fingers slide free of her grasp. “I think training with Mr. Sawyer took some of the fun out of it for me,” he said. “It made me see a lot of things differently—more seriously—and then I just never went back to how it was before.”

“What about now?” the herbalist teased, nudging his arm. “Have you changed your mind about this town, or are you just being polite enough to show a guest around?”

The sound of a phone ringing cut off whatever reply he might've chosen to give.

Thinking it was her agent, Jenna reached for her knapsack, only to see Con pulling a phone from his pocket.

His gaze held an apology. “It's a local number—probably someone needing a headstone shipped or some onsite carving at the cemetery. I'll be right back.”

She nodded, watching him stroll towards an open space beyond the noise of the vendor's booths.

Amelia followed her gaze, giving a small cough before she said, “So, you and Con. Are you seeing each other then?”

The question caught her off guard, even though she'd been holding his hand just a minute before. “Well, we only just met,” she said, fumbling for a truthful answer. “I'm not sure it could be that serious yet.”

“Of course—that was really nosy of me.” The woman gave a hearty laugh, pulling a tray of plants from beneath the register. “I only asked because I've never seen him out with anyone. That, and he never came to the festival, even when it was Colleen helping me run the booth.”

Jenna felt her eyes widen with this piece of information. “Then he never does this sort of thing?” she asked. “Not even a dinner or two out?” It was something she should have guessed on her own, even though it made their sudden attachment seem all the more implausible.

“I never heard of him being with anyone,” Amelia said, “but then, I didn't see him as much after he stopped coming to church or into town for anything other than a sack of groceries, for that matter.”

Had he made an exception for her out of loneliness? The idea popped into her mind uninvited, poking holes in the romantic feelings she indulged earlier. Others quickly joined it, Jenna frowning as she tugged absently at the cross around her neck.

Amelia was busy with a customer by now, explaining the medicinal benefits of various herbs. A long line had formed by the time Con returned, looking distracted as he took Jenna by the shoulder to guide her to a quieter spot.

She wanted to ask him if he was sure about this—about anything related to the two of them. But there was no time, as he shared what had called him away those last few minutes.

“Jenna,” he began, “the customer who called is one of Mrs. Maudell's relatives. They phoned because…well, Josephine passed away.”

She gasped, a hand covering her mouth. “What? When? I just saw her,” she said, trying to grasp the news. “Just yesterday we talked—”

“It happened this afternoon,” he explained. “Apparently, her doctor noticed something was off in their visit this morning. He ran some tests and it turned out there was some bleeding in her brain. Jenna, I'm sorry—”

Tears engulfed her, escaping to run down her face. “I can't believe this,” she said. “We were just getting to know each other. She was finally ready to do something for the town, to play her own part in its history.”

It was too late for the answers or for anything else. The collection Josephine had been so proud of would probably be split among her different relatives, most of it to be sold or donated if they didn't share her interest. The uniform, the letters—all these things connected to the town's history would be lost to this place, along with the memory of the woman who had preserved them.

Jenna couldn't help the sobs that shook her. Strangers passed by, glancing their way. She covered her face, blocking out the sight of the festivities as Con wrapped a soothing arm around her.

 

 

 

 

24

 

Fireworks crackled on the night air, vibrant shades of blue and green winked out in a trail of sparks. Away from the cheering festival crowds, Jenna and Con rested against the stone wall at the corner. In the distance, the tall house with its pillars could be seen, the windows darkened.

“She was so eager to see her life's work finally realized in some way,” Jenna said. “All that history she worked so hard to save…now it's too late.” Her tears had finished drying earlier.

Con walked beside her in a silence that spoke more comfort than reassurance would have.

There was nothing to say, after all. She had failed, her best chance of finishing the town's story lost along with the wisdom of the soldier's descendant.

“I feel as if I let her down,” she said, turning to face him beneath the glow of street lamps. “I wanted to find the truth for her as much as anyone. As a tribute to the history she tried to preserve.”

“You could still do it,” he pointed out. “Not for Josephine, but everyone else with family in the cemetery. She would want that. It would keep her legacy alive, which is the best kind of tribute, anyway.”

She summoned a half-smile for this suggestion which paralleled his own work. They always came back to that somehow, Con always denying that his could make any real difference. Maybe that was why his words failed to inspire her now—because he never believed them himself.

“So. Now what?” he asked awkwardly. “You start the genealogy on the graves—”

“I leave.” She watched the look of shock on his face melt into quiet disappointment. “It was only because of Josephine that my time here got extended,” she explained. “Without her, there's no more answers to find—she
was
the history in this town.”

“You're just giving up, then.” He said it slowly, as if to let it sink in. “After all the research you did, tracking down the graves. That's it.”

“There's nothing left I can do,” she said. “I can't find answers without help, and even then, there's no guarantee the truth is still around to find. Even Josephine's collection might not have contained the answer.” She could hear the frustration in her voice. Sadness more than anger, for the way things turned out. Not just with the cemetery, she knew, but the carver whose identity seemed linked to it in her mind for reasons she could never quite define.