Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4) (10 page)

“I don't know, dear,” Matt sighed. He sounded tired now. “I don't know. I wish I could give you all the answers.”

T
he ride to Lexington, the biggest city closest to her, was an eye opener. They'd told her at Guest Services that the road was “a little windy” but she thought HWY 68 might just kill her. If she wasn't afraid of slipping down over the embankment and tumbling to the river far below she was watching for other cars and praying she didn't pass any; the road was barely wide enough to be considered real.

Not that it wasn't pretty, of course. It was beautiful with its leafy green canopy, death-defying twists and turns, and towering hills. But she was awfully glad when she finally pulled into the parking lot of the Fayette Mall and got out of her car.

“Land! Land,” she panted, not caring that the couple walking past her turned and gave her a strange look.

“Probably meth,” the middle-aged woman whispered to the man and they picked up their pace.

There was an easier way to reach Lexington and she'd take it going back. Screw the “scenic view.” Not even Patti Griffen's soothing gospel album playing on her CD player had calmed her nerves.

She'd visited Lexington while she worked at Windwood Farm and had appreciated it for its charming restaurants, beautifully restored downtown, large bookstore, and art supply stores. Although she was technically there to pick up more paint, she really just wanted to lose herself in the mall for awhile. There was nothing like a good bout of retail therapy to let yourself zone out for awhile.

Despite the mass of people, loud Muzak, and brightly-colored lights (malls rarely had dork corners) Taryn didn't think many places in the world were as lonely or artificial as indoor shopping malls. The customers always seemed to walk at either a snail's pace, kind of sauntering, or at rapid speed, ready to bulldoze anyone in their way. No matter what their pace was, they most all stared straight in front of themselves, refusing eye contact with strangers, and barely registered the fact that there were others around them. The cavernous rooms and high ceilings, coupled with the canned music, drowned out the voices so that the spaces always felt empty.

These weren't necessarily bad things to Taryn's mind. Sometimes she wanted to be amidst people but didn't necessarily want to interact. Flea markets were outdoor, social events. And sometimes she wanted that, too.

After leaving Georgia she'd returned to Florida and spent Christmas with Matt. In January, however, she'd returned back to Nashville. In addition to the fact that her savings were dwindling and she needed money, nothing at Matt's house was really hers. She was living out of her suitcases, without a dresser drawer or closet space, felt like she needed to ask permission whenever she ate something from the refrigerator or cupboard, and had nothing personal even setting around the house to help her claim it. For someone used to spending a lot of time in hotel rooms, this might have been a bit ironic but at least in the hotel rooms she could spread out, be responsible for her own mess, and create little spaces for herself.

She'd made the mistake of driving back down with Matt, too, and without a vehicle had felt isolated and cut off from the rest of the world, despite the fact he lived on a crowded street with neighbors within spitting distance on both sides.

There'd been nothing to do while she was there, other than read, watch movies, sleep, and surf the internet. And there was only so much of all three a girl could handle. She'd gotten into so many fights with what she could only imagine were teenage girls online that at least two reality TV forums had banned her. Her forty-three Facebook friends hadn't kept her very entertained. She'd taken so many pictures of the houses in Matt's neighborhood that the one evening she saw an armadillo, something different, she'd been ecstatic.

She didn't think Matt minded so much when she left, either. He hadn't put up too much of a fuss when she'd announced she needed to get back to her apartment and air it out. Before she walked out of the house she'd left her fuzzy blanket folded up on the back of his couch, a piece of her, a sign that she'd be returning soon.

Two days later it arrived in the mail with a short note that read: Oops! You forgot this!

So much for sentimentality.

A few short jobs later and her bank account was full again and for the first time in a long while she had a little bit of spending money in her pocket. Taryn strolled through the stores, munching on a hot pretzel, and tried on skirts, shorts, and soft cotton tops. She hit Bath & Body Works on a sale day and left with a bag full of bubble bath and shower gel. She got new comfortable sandals and three trashy magazines.

It was a good day; good to get out, see something new, and treat herself.

A
fter Taryn left the mall she headed a few miles away to New Age Gifts & More. She'd met the store owner, Rob, almost a year ago. In his store he refurbished electronics and sold an eclectic array of crystals and pentagram jewelry. He was part hippie, part Donald Trump. (Taryn later discovered he lived in one of the renovated mini-mansions behind Rupp Arena on Madison Street.) But, to her, he was now a friend and someone who'd come to her aid more than once.

“Rob!” Taryn called as she walked through the innocuous glass doors in the middle of the nondescript strip mall. Outside was a littered parking lot with rows of SUVs and sweltering pavement. Inside was an explosion of color with row after row of herbs, dream catchers, Tarot decks, and bronzed Buddha statues clashed with Xboxes, DVD players, and iPhone cases.

A shaggy head poked up from behind the counter and the young man smiled through a bushy beard. He and Matt had gone through college together, and graduated with the same degrees, but had chosen very different career paths.

“Hey! I knew it was you as soon as I heard the pretty voice,” he flirted, coming out to engulf her in a great big bear hug.

Taryn knew Rob had a serious girlfriend and embraced him back out of sheer affection. He was one of the few people she felt totally comfortable with when it came to talking about her experiences. She still didn't know exactly what to do with what she had but when she talked to him it made her feel a little less awkward and freakish.

After he hung the “closed” sign on the door and they settled onto the small sofa behind the counter, Taryn felt herself relax. Rob had some kind of sweet-smelling herb on the incense burner, she was almost certain it wasn't pot, and Loreena McKennit on the CD player. Spread out around his feet were the parts to a HP printer.

“You know, it pays the bills,” he shrugged, gesturing to the disarray on the floor. “So I hear you're working over there with the Shakers.”

“For a little while,” Taryn replied. “It was kind of a dream job. I wrote my dissertation on the Shakers, you know.”

“So I'm assuming something's going on there,” he prodded. Rob didn't beat around the bush.

“Well, yeah, but I wanted to see you, too. You're the only friend I have in the area,” Taryn said. She left out the part where he was one of the only friends she had
period.

“I'll take that as a compliment, although it's probably not true.”

She realized then, that she did have another friend. Melissa in Vidalia, where she'd worked at Windwood Farm, was a Facebook friend now and they sometimes chatted back and forth. She hadn't even thought about trying to meet up with her while she was so close but now it sounded like a fine idea.

“So tell me what's going on over there with the cult,” Rob prodded.

“It's not a cult,” Taryn laughed.

“All forms of religious groups are cults in my book. No offense to them,” he apologized without enthusiasm. “I know about the ghosts, though. I used to sell copies of a book about the Shaker ghosts.”

Taryn perked up and straightened. “Yeah? You remember anything about them?”

“Just your usual, run-of-the-mill ghost stories. You know, creaky noises, people walking around in period clothing who weren't actually employees, singing, stuff like that.”

“Any stories on who any of those people might have been?”

Rob scratched his beard, pulled out a loose hair, and studied it before tossing it into the trash. “Getting grayer every day,” he grumbled. “And to answer your question, I don't think so. There may have been a story about a murder. Maybe one about a suicide. I can't really remember, though. It's been awhile. Nothing that stood out, you know?”

“What about babies?”

“You asking if I have one or you asking if I can help you have one?” he winked.

“Oh Lord, no,” Taryn laughed. “Not yet. I meant babies at Shaker Town. I heard a story about a pond.”

“Oh yeah!” Rob snapped his finger. “Dead babies in a pond! Oh, man, sorry about that. I get crass sometimes.”

“It's okay,” Taryn replied. “Is that story true? I mean, not that the Shakers killed infants but that there were skeletons in the pond?”

“I've heard that story before, that you can hear babies crying at night and people thought they were coming from the pond,” Rob agreed. “But, to my knowledge, no skeletons have been found in it. That part is an urban legend.”

“Thank God,” Taryn murmured. “Some things are just too much.”

“So tell Daddy what you're seeing,” Rob encouraged her.  “What's eating at you?”

“Curiosity mostly,” Taryn admitted. “Not knowing what happened. Wondering who those people are, why they died, what happened to them...”

“So the same things that make you good at your job,” Rob affirmed.

“Huh?”

“Well, it's your questioning, your probing, your imagination that make you a great artist. Your ability to see the past isn't just supernatural, Taryn. You've always seen it in your mind, even before you could see it through the camera.”

“Yeah, that's true,” Taryn conceded, thinking of the many times she'd taken drives through the country, looking at old houses and tobacco barns and wondering about the people who once lived and worked in them.

“And now that same curiosity makes you curious about the ghosts. You can't cut it off. I bet you read Nancy Drew a lot as a kid,” he teased her.

“Yeah, a little,” Taryn smiled.

“And do you feel like this is just something in passing, something you can move on from, or is this one for you?” Rob asked. Matt had asked her almost the same exact thing.

“That's what I am trying to figure out.”

Rob stood, patted her on top of her head, and walked to the small refrigerator in the corner. He offered her a drink and held his to his head. “Hotter than hell out there today,” he muttered. “The fact is, you can't help all the ghosts. And not all ghosts want your help. Some can't be helped at all. You've got to learn and practice some control. Learn when to move forward, when to cut them off.”

Taryn acquiesced. He was right. “Well, listen, I always seem to be coming to you for advice. Can I do something for you around here? I'm not in a big hurry to get back.”

A slow grin spread across Rob's tanned face, making him look a decade younger. “As a matter of fact, I just got in a whole slew of books. You can alphabetize them, shelf them, and enter in the inventory. I'll take you to the store room...”