Whisper Falls (23 page)

“Can I help you, hon?”

I heard the voice but couldn't find its owner. It came from the corner, so I headed there. An elderly woman with long, curly gray hair and ten earrings in each ear looked up. She wore lots of eye makeup and her lips were black. Intentionally.

“Need something?” Her voice had a heavy-smoker huskiness.

“Yeah. I'm looking for a costume.”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a pig snort. “Well, it's either that or the bathroom. We don't have much else in here.” She unrolled from the beanbag chair she had been sitting in and creaked to her feet. She was nearly as tall as I was. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“George Washington.”

“General or President?”

“President. Second term.”

“That narrows it down.” Her nose scrunched. “I had you pegged for Spiderman. Or Dr. Frank-N-Furter.”

“What?”

She laughed/snorted again. “Georgie, huh? Let's see.” She wandered through a long rack of clothes, made a hard right, stopped, pushed a few hangers aside, and grunted. “Here's something.”

She took a pair of pants in ugly, dog-poop brown. They tied on, which was probably fine because they were too big. I swung them around. The back was split open.

“My ass will show through these.”

“Then, obviously, you'll have to sew them.”

“Is the store not responsible for that?”

“Do I look like a seamstress?” Her laugh morphed into a mucousy cough. “I'll sell them to you for ten bucks.”

“Sure. Whatever.” My mom had a sewing machine. She would take care of them for me. I just had to work out how I would answer all of the questions she would ask. “I need more than pants.”

“They're called breeches. And yes, you do.” She pulled out a white shirt. Huge sleeves with buttons at the wrists. It was open to mid-chest but had laces. “How about this?”

It stank. Like beer and BO. “I assume you're not a laundromat, either?”

“You catch on quickly. I'll sell this one for ten bucks.”

“Do you ever rent?”

“If you want to rent, you try
Guess Me!
on Hillsborough Street.”

“Yeah, they sent me here.”

“So you're stuck. Twenty bucks.”

“Okay.” I'd expected to spend more on rentals. So far, so good.

“Shoes, my young Georgie?”

“Probably.”

They were awful. Big, black, cracked leather things with thick heels and silverish buckles.

“What do you think, hon?”

“I think not.”

“Wise choice. No one'll look at your feet.”

Yeah. Black athletic shoes would have to do. “Anything else I should have?”

“Hat.” She handed over a tricorn hat made of navy felt. “It's on the house.”

The hat was the nastiest thing I'd ever tried on. “Sure.”

“Jacket.” She held up a blue wool coat with big buttons and gold trim and waggled her eyebrows.

“In the summer? No way.”

She shrugged and tossed it on a dresser piled with similarly discarded items. “You must have stockings.”

“Why?”

“Back then, bare legs were not smoking.” With a jerk of her head, she wove her way through the maze of her shop toward the front.

I followed.

Fingers flying, she rang up my stuff on an antique cash register. “You can buy stockings at the drug store. Knee highs. Like your mom wears.”

“My mom does not wear knee highs.”

“Your grandma, then.” She held out her hand, palm up, and wiggled her fingers. “Twenty bucks. Hand ‘em over.”

* * *

I stopped at Meredith Ridge Shopping Center on my way home, bought
The Witch of Blackbird Pond
at the bookstore, and then headed into the drug store for fake stockings.

Damn. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be taking time away from my training and my business to hit the State Archives or to buy a costume with stockings, I would've said they were crazy.

But then, I hadn't met Susanna yet—and for her, I'd do whatever it took.

The hose aisle was easy enough to find. I hadn't expected so many kinds and colors, though. Not just black and brown. There were red, purple, blue, and
yellow?
Seriously?

The sizes weren't helpful. Small. Medium. Large. Queen.

Really? They had queen but not extra-large or gigantic or guy-with-big-calves?

“Hey, Mark.”

Alexis's voice. Of course. Why did she keep popping up in places where I was and didn't want her to be?

“Hey,” I said as I grabbed a package and flipped to the back. There was a size chart. Cool.

“So…” She stepped closer. “What are you looking for?”

I looked at the display and then at the package in my hand. How much more obvious could it be…? “Knee highs.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“My mom. Is queen the biggest?” I flipped to the front and rechecked the color. Dark brown was good.

“Uh-huh.” She pointed at a different package. “Your mom is more this size.”

“Nah, I'll take these.” I lowered my voice, as if I were telling a secret. “She's allergic to bee stings. One got her in the leg.” I made a muffled explosion sound. “Serious swelling.”

“Uh-huh.” She fell into step beside me as I walked to the front. “Tell her I hope she feels better.”

“Sure thing.”

Alexis detoured to another aisle while I waited my turn in the checkout line. I was proud of myself. That had gone well. Very polite. Civil. Mature.

I glanced back over my shoulder as I exited the store and froze.

She stood beside Carlton in front of the refrigerators, choosing cold drinks.

They were holding hands.

Carlton had been home since Sunday. We'd texted a couple of times but could never seem to work out anything. I'd been too busy with Susanna to even think about why.

Now I knew.
I
wasn't the problem.

My insides felt hollow and expanding—a great big void, waiting for the right emotion to fill it up.

I didn't feel jealousy. At a purely selfish level, I wanted Alexis to be focused on another guy. It meant I wouldn't run into her on the greenway anymore. It was great, too, that it wasn't Keefe. That would've pissed me off, because he'd been involved with the bully ring somehow and Alexis knew it.

So what emotions were left? Anger? Sadness?

Aunt Pamela had once said that the worst kind of betrayal could only come at the hands of a friend. I'd never really understood what she meant until this moment.

Carlton's head whipped around and our gazes locked. The muscles along his jaw tensed. He flushed a dark red and then looked back at the cold drinks.

Alexis finally had a boyfriend who didn't play competitive sports year-round, and she hadn't had to look any further than my best friend.

My master signaled his son to stay with his lessons tonight, but their silent exchange held a sinister cast.

I set out on my break cautiously, but there were no signs of a spy. With the cave as my destination, I strolled quickly through the woods and emerged on the ribbon of grasses edging Rocky Creek.

Behind me, a twig snapped.

I hesitated. The murmurings of the night creatures had already suggested another presence. The twig provided confirmation. But it was only one twig. Whoever spied from the shadows possessed skill.

Even if Jedidiah had not stayed home for his lessons, I would know it could not be he. Jedidiah was not so quiet.

It must be my master who hunted me.

In another few steps, I might have given my secrets away. My intent to approach the creek was clear. Any change would alert the hunter that I was aware of him. I would go to the creek but not the cave.

I remained on the bluff, upstream from the falls. The water was slow-moving and shallow. Kneeling on the bank, I made a show of splashing water on my face and arms.

Night was falling fast. I resumed my walk on the trail to the village, looking straight ahead, hoping Mark would make no attempt to catch my attention. The forest enveloped me under its dense cover. The occasional brush of boots against bark warned me that Mr. Pratt still followed.

My mood diminished with each step that took me nearer the town and farther from Mark. Since I could not be with him this evening, I would indulge my thoughts instead. What had he learned? Would we be successful in finding Phoebe a good job?

How could I wait another day? I wanted my sister's life settled now. This minute. I could not permit Phoebe to suffer the same misery as I had.

My first year with the Pratts had been the worst. I had been young enough—and foolish enough—to believe I could prevail. I was Susanna the Undaunted. I would not be cowed. Josiah Marsh's daughter might've changed houses, but she wouldn't change herself.

Mr. Pratt had taught me quickly I could keep none of my former self and work for him.
Spare the rod and spoil the child
was his personal creed. He had determined to beat every trait out of me, except the ability to work. A sharp tongue drew slaps to my mouth. A cross look resulted in bed without supper. Rebellion brought a thrashing—in the evening, of course, so I had the full night to recover.

I grew quite skilled at removing blood from clothes and forcing my emotions into the hidden corners of my soul. I lived in resignation with my lot.

Since meeting Mark, however, contentment had turned to turmoil. Had he caused the turmoil or had he only illuminated it?

Perhaps he was responsible for the increase in my distress. Until I met Mark, the final months had not seemed so interminable. I could only have endured my servitude for eight years by ignoring my longing to leave. Had those feelings died, or had they merely lain dormant until Mark's presence coaxed them to stir?

Truly, the answers didn't matter. I couldn't imagine my life without a friend—without
him
—anymore.

I finished a slow circuit through the town and returned to the Pratt property. As I entered the kitchen to check tomorrow's porridge, the door to the main house made a soft snick. My master had spent his evening seeking to unmask my secrets. His efforts had been in vain.

* * *

Saturday was a rare, mild day. The children played outside, weeded the garden with me, or hunted berries in the thicket. They were all thoroughly grimy by evening, just in time for their monthly baths.

After supper, I set the large tub in the center of the kitchen and filled it with heated water. Once my master and mistress had bathed, the children took their turns. Deborah assisted me with the little ones. I would bathe last.

The family retired to the main house.

I removed the long, sharp thorns that pinned the edges of my bodice together and laid them carefully on the worktable. My cap and hairpins followed.

With reluctance, I gripped the side of the tub and stared at the murky water within. I dreaded the thought of another cold, dirty bath.

A defiant spirit possessed me. I yanked my hand away and gave the tub a hard kick. It tipped over, flooding the floorboards of the kitchen, the bath water seeping through the cracks.

I would bathe under the moon and the stars, in water I shared only with the rocks.

It was too late to be out,
and
it was the night before the Sabbath. But I didn't care. When I reached the bluff, I sought a view of the other bank, gleaming silvery-gray in the moonlight, knowing Mark would not be there but looking nonetheless. I climbed down the wall, undressed to my shift, and draped my garments over a boulder.

The falls streamed over the top of the ledge and fell in ropes of water that separated, intertwined, and danced apart. The creek was like a serene, shallow pool.

I sucked in a nervous breath. The falls would not pound my head. The creek's current would not pull me under. It was safe. Completely, utterly safe. I put one foot in, then another, and waited. The stream lapped about my ankles.

It was foolish to pause, wasting my precious time. I waded to the falls and stood under its gentle flow, the water deliciously cool in the warm evening.

I returned to the house a long time later, refreshed and happy to have conquered the creek. On tiptoe, I ascended the steps to the attic, meeting no one on the way, and prayed that my sleep would be as lovely as the final hour of my day.

* * *

The Pratts rose early the next morning, donned their Sunday best, and waited for their simple breakfast of porridge and cider. Once the meal was eaten, we marched—parents in the front, children lined up behind like little ducklings, me a respectful distance to the rear—on the path to town.

The Methodists had the meetinghouse this Sunday, but no preacher. Mr. Worth, as the most prominent Methodist in town, would lead the worship service. He would speak on his favorite topic, lust and its perverted partners, fornication and adultery.

The Pratts clattered up the steps into the meetinghouse. I lagged behind, preferring to remain in the shade of the building until the last possible moment. Mary Whitfield greeted me quietly, her eyes darting here and there, looking for someone. Reuben Elliott, no doubt.

A flutter of movement filtered through the trees, not the breeze or an animal, but a flash of white which contrasted starkly against the pine trunks. A traveler passed alongside the creek and stopped where the path reached the main road. I squinted. It was a young man in a white shirt and dark hat. He glanced furtively in our direction before turning toward Raleigh, pushing an odd machine.

Mark was here?

Lightheaded from joy, I nodded to Mary, hurried to the privy, and ducked behind it. No one had noticed. I darted into the woods, paralleling the road until I rounded the bend, out of sight of the churchgoers. From ahead came the soft crunch of shoes on pine cones.