Give Up the Ghost Page 12

  “I’d love it,” Sebastian says.

  I lean down and whisper in Maribelle’s ear, “He needs his own restaurant and I think he should move here. You might get a tenant.”

  Sebastian gives me a “get real” look. “Emma’s Cove? Me?”

  I stand to prove that I’m serious about seeing the buildings. And when I gaze at my twin, I know he’s just as curious.

  “Okay,” Maribelle says reluctantly. “I need to get the keys.”

  She gathers up the teapot. “Let me help,” I say, picking up the cups.

  Honestly, I really want to see inside her miniature apartment. I’m dying to check out all those plants growing in her window, to see if she’s as magical with greenery as I suspect she is. Once we get inside and I spot the greenhouse within, my suspicions are confirmed.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I exclaim. “You must meet my Aunt Mimi. She’s a wiz with plants as well.”

  For the second time that day Maribelle turns on her inner lightbulb. Out of the darkness that I’m used to, her light is almost blinding.

  “Do you like plants too?” she asks. “I’m happy to share some.”

  I twist up my face. I know I’m a witch and all but I’ve been known to kill plastic. “Uh, not really.”

  The light fades. “Oh, okay. Just thought maybe I had found a plant buddy.”

  A thought emerges. “Maybe you can teach me.”

  And I can figure out why I’ve been called to you.

  She smiles. “Absolutely.”

  Maribelle heads to the kitchen and unloads her basket items into the sink while I look around her tiny living room and pretend to admire her plants, none of which I recognize. I love plants, I really do, but I don’t feel the connection like Aunt Mimi does. Trees I get, majestic beings who are on this planet to offer us shade, a cooling breeze in summer, and oxygen to live. But an African violet or a philodendron? Can’t relate.

  And it’s also not the same as my connection with rocks. I don’t feel vibrations from plants in the same way. Aunt Mimi insists I can learn but I’d rather play witch with my stones.

  “Check out the herbs on the window sill,” Maribelle calls from the kitchen. “I’ve got some unusual ones there.”

  I head to the bay window that overlooks the small office parking lot, a window big enough to greet the sun and allow plants to absorb sunlight until noon, Maribelle instructs me from the kitchen. I must say the smell is delicious and I would love to have some of that sweet aroma in my houseboat.

  But then I get distracted by photos on the nearby desk. There’s a photo of a woman with two kids with one of them looking like Maribelle as a teenager. What must be her parents have their hands on her shoulders, smiling, while an older boy on the side stands with his arms crossed about his chest, scowling.

  “My rue is really taking off,” Maribelle calls out from the kitchen.

  “Awesome,” I pipe back, leaning down to check out the photos at the rear of the desk. There’s another of people I don’t recognize and a small one of a wedding couple with the man in uniform. I assume the latter is Maribelle’s parents for they own the same facial attributes.

  “I have lots of mint, too, if you just want something for iced tea,” she continues.

  “Okay,” I say absentmindedly, reaching to the back to pull out a photo hidden by the others.

  “And spearmint.”

  I pull the photo free and stand straight, move toward the light to better make out the image. There, staring back, is a wedding couple standing on a deck with commercial fishing boats in the background. Maribelle’s dressed in a short lacy dress, pearls and high heels — so unlike her — and she’s not smiling. Next to her is a ruddy bearded man in a suit.

  It’s Gorton.

  “That was my husband,” I hear her say behind me. “On our wedding day.”

  I swallow hard but I can’t look at her. I don’t know what to say. I need to find the right time to explain how I’ve been seeing her dead husband and how he insists I speak with her, but TB and Sebastian are waiting outside.

  I place the photo back on the desk. “Lovely couple,” I manage.

  Maribelle grabs the keys, we join the men, and head back toward town but I’m stunned to say the least. I’ve had ghosts appear asking that I contact loved ones but never ones who have followed me around the country. And to have Caroline restate a request to speak with Maribelle has me befuddled.

  We walk to the center of town and the worst-off building, which takes a good shove to get the front door open. The inside reveals a front room that’s been gutted to the studs and cleaned, a hint of Pine Sol permeating the air. It’s not as quaint as its neighbor, doesn’t include the beautiful brick and wood as the other, but it’s homey.

  “It needs some structural work and the roof needs replacing but I’ve kept it in stable condition,” Maribelle tells us. “I was hoping to make this the tea shop and I would live on the second floor. It’s actually quite cozy up there with a fabulous view of the lake.”

  We head next door to the building I’m personally enamored with where the first floor has also been gutted and restored, just needs paint, Maribelle tells us.

  “Except for the left wall, of course.” She runs a hand over the rustic brick. “I left this exposed along with the wooden floors and beams.”

  I sneak a glimpse at Sebastian and he’s checking out every inch of the place. I can see round tables throughout, with a couple of cozy two-tops by the fireplace, all covered in magenta tablecloths and candles.

  “Where would the kitchen be?” I ask him.

  “Kitchen?” Maribelle repeats.

  Sebastian shrugs. “Vi thinks this would make a great restaurant.”

  The light comes on again and Maribelle smiles. “Follow me.”

  We head to the back and find a large room with massive sinks and a drain in the middle of the concrete floor. It, too, has been gutted but could easily be converted into a commercial kitchen.

  “This was the commissary for the timber company,” Maribelle explains. “They cooked and served the meals here. And there’s an old mill in the woods behind this place so the company ground its own cornmeal and grits.”

  I adore freshly ground meal, makes the best bread, and the thought of stone-ground grits has me dreaming up a savory plate of shrimp and grits. I imagine Sebastian would love getting that mill back on line, but more importantly I would.

  My brother’s gazing around the kitchen with a smile, no doubt thinking where the appliances would go, and I’m about to burst. I know I’m ahead of myself, plus imagining my twin in tiny Emma’s Cove after his experiences with famous chefs is hopeful at best. But I ask Maribelle anyway. “What’s the second floor look like?”

  We follow Maribelle upstairs through a back staircase off the kitchen and the second floor has been gutted too, although nothing more has been done. It’s a blank slate except for the bathroom fixtures sticking out of the wall toward the back, connecting to the plumbing coming off the kitchen.

  “I left this open, thinking whoever bought the building might want to live here and design it however they want.” Maribelle again lovingly touches the exposed brick. “The bathroom must be back here because of the plumbing, but the rest is fair game.”

  We walk through the massive room, admiring the raw wooden floors, the tall ceilings graced with thick wooden beams and the oversized windows exposing a breathtaking view of the lake. The fireplace from the second floor has an opening here as well, and I imagine a cozy blaze on a cold winter night.

  “Why didn’t you want to live here?” Sebastian asks. “This view has to be better than the other.”

  She joins him at the window and from behind they look like the perfect couple contemplating their first home together. And yes, I’m way ahead of myself.

  “I wanted to run the herb shop so it made more sense,” she says. “And I thought about making this a bed and breakfast but I can’t cook, so I figured I’d have to hire someone to run the kitc
hen or lease this out to someone who might want to use the ground floor and live on the second.”

  Like Sebastian.

  As if he read my mind, Sebastian looks back at me and his eyes narrow. I can’t help myself, send him a wide smile.

  TB, on the other hand, isn’t subtle. “You should open a restaurant here, Sebastian.”

  My husband’s late to the table with that remark, to borrow a restaurant pun.

  Sebastian laughs nervously, looking from us to Maribelle. “I just got here, y’all.”

  There’s a bit of a blush on Maribelle’s cheeks, but she adds a finishing comment. “I upgraded the plumbing.”

  TB starts talking carpentry to Maribelle and the two walk around the second floor examining her handiwork. Meanwhile, Sebastian sends me the evil eye.

  I shrug. “Think of the quality time you could spend with your niece and nephew.”

  Maribelle turns around abruptly. “Twins?”

  TB takes my hand and we smile for all the world and for the first time feel unconditional joy at our future. My mind starts to remind me that Dwayne is out there and the world is anything but safe but I brush the image away.

  “Yes, twins. Doctor Mahoney thinks it’s a boy and a girl.”

  Sebastian seems happy we’re on to a new subject but after a few minutes of Maribelle’s maternal questions and suggestions and the placing of hands on my belly, he’s ready to move on.

  “Where do the people of Emma’s Cove live? Or are there people living here, besides you three.”

  “They live all over the mountain,” Maribelle says. “Wanna see?”

  Finally, I think, I’ll get to find out where these people reside.

  We climb into Sebastian’s Toyota, Archangel Michael guarding us from his place on the dashboard. Sebastian insists Maribelle sit in the front passenger seat since she knows the way — at which time Sebastian sends us a hostile look daring us to comment — and we head west through town. As soon as we leave the lake’s edge the road ascends and we’re enveloped into woods, old-growth trees growing high, blocking out the sun with the lake peeking through the woods every few yards. I can easily see why women on the run loved this place, so isolated and yet peaceful and green.

  As we drive through the Tennessee back roads, I spot a house or a trailer off the road, partially hidden behind the trees.

  “The owner of the diner lives there,” Maribelle says, when we pass a quaint little cottage nestled deep inside a stand of sugar maples.

  She points out several other residents’ houses, some hardly visible from the road, then the road ends in a cul de sac with a ranch-style house at the far end.

  “After the men burned Emma’s compound, she thought it best if the women of the town had their own places.” Maribelle turns in her seat to make sure we’re hearing her. “And over time she purchased plots of land for them where they built their own homes.”

  “Is that what the Emma’s Cove Foundation is?”

  Maribelle looks impressed. “Yes, exactly. It still exists.”

  “But who lives there?” TB asks, pointing to the house before us.

  We look through the trees at the home that I assume is deserted, but there’s a lovely garden plot in front, now dormant. If someone doesn’t live here now, they did last year.

  “That was Emma’s house,” Maribelle says softly, as if in reverence. “Now, it’s a community center.”

  TB perks up. “Can we go see it?”

  Maribelle gazes at the house in contemplation and I’m wondering if she still distrusts us. Finally, she digs the keys out of her purse and motions for Sebastian to drive. All the while I’m thinking, she has keys to this place? Was she leaving behind an abusive past, sugar-coating her story?

  Sebastian pulls into the driveway and parks and we all head to the house. Now that we’re closer, it’s clear someone uses this place on a regular basis because the driveway has recent tire marks, there’s fresh trash in the can on the side of the house, and a light shines on the inside.

  “We have community meetings here,” Maribelle explains. “We used to do town business at the library but this aggressive writer from a regional website kept showing up looking to solve the mystery of what happened years ago.”

  I hold up my hands. “Not all journalists are bad.”

  Maribelle huffs. “I wouldn’t call that idiot a journalist.”

  She opens the door and indeed, the insides are well kept up and furnished. The wood paneling and mid-century light fixtures date the house but the walls contain peaceful landscape artwork and lake photographs and the wall colors are soft and inviting. We head through the front room, which has a circle of chairs.

  “We do a lot of counseling in here, some of it by volunteers from a few Chattanooga organizations,” Maribelle says. “Another reason why we moved from the library, because the library is part of the county system and Touché insisted that if we use a county building we had to have certified counselors present. We always did, but he found out about the one night it rained and the counselor couldn’t drive over and we had an informal meeting anyway.”

  “Who’s Touché?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I whisper to Sebastian.

  In the back is a large kitchen and several bedrooms. In fact, the house stretches back way farther than anyone could imagine spotting it from the road.

  “We house women, too,” Maribelle says, giving us a stern look. “But please keep that to yourself. It’s nothing illegal but we want to keep their whereabouts private. That’s why the place looks deserted.”

  “Of course,” TB says empathically.

  “We don’t have anyone staying here right now.”

  Sebastian gazes through the kitchen windows that are so dirty I’m not sure he can make out the backyard.

  “What’s back there?” he asks.

  I follow his line of sight and there’s an old cottage beneath a small grove of trees.

  “That was the caretaker’s cottage from the timber days,” Maribelle explains. “It didn’t burn with the rest of the buildings.”

  I love old buildings, adore the smell of the ancient fireplaces, the mature wood. “Can we see it?”

  Maribelle shrugs and we walk across the yard that’s filled with leaves and pine needles.

  “We use it now for storage,” she says, unlocking the small cottage’s door.

  It’s so dark inside we’re not sure what we’re looking at and its dank darkness gives me the heebie jeebies. Maribelle flips on the light switch and suddenly it’s a house, living area in front, tiny kitchen in back and a room off to the side.

  “No indoor plumbing which is why we use it for storage,” she begins while I start snooping around for that historical fix. So far, the place has been updated and neglected and it feels like an average old home. I’m disappointed, and the mildew smell reminds me of post-Katrina homes, when mold crawled up the walls like spiders. After viewing the kitchen filled with yard equipment, I’m ready to go.

  And yet, something draws me to the back bedroom. I slip around the corner and peek inside, but the room appears empty. All except something resembling clothes stuffed in the corner.

  “No one stays here?” I call out to Maribelle.

  “Oh no,” she answers. “We hardly use the place. And that bedroom has floor issues so be careful.”

  I walk into the bedroom, avoiding the soft spots in the linoleum. There appears to be a leak in the ceiling which might be the cause of the mildew smell. I think to convey that information to Maribelle so no further damage is caused, but that pile of clothes in the corner demands my attention. I inch closer and discover what looks like a shirt and a hat. As I finally stand above it, with the light of the window allowing it to come into focus, I gasp.

  It’s a red flannel shirt and a camouflage hunter’s hat.

  “TB,” I call out.

  My fright must have leaked through my voice for all three of them come running into the room, TB in front. He grabs my shoulder
s and turns me around, once more looking me over.

  “I’m fine,” I say, which of course is a grave lie. I point to the pile in the corner.

  “What is it?” Sebastian says with a smile. “A roach? A mouse?”

  TB senses something else and I can almost feel the hairs on his arms rise to attention. He looks at me and I nod.

  “Dwayne’s been here.”

  Chapter 9

  Everything moves into hyper-speed. TB calls Clayton with one hand while holding me tight with the other. Sebastian plays detective, moving us out of the cottage and insisting we not touch anything or step on floor marks resembling shoe prints. Maribelle follows behind locking doors and moving us into the big house all the while asking, “Who’s Dwayne?”

  When we finally stop moving and breathe, plopping into the circle of chairs, Maribelle stands in its center, hands on hips. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s on his way,” TB tells me, flipping his cell phone closed. “Amazingly enough, he’s in the area.”

  I nod, still trying to catch my breath. “Good.”

  “Who’s on his way?” asks Maribelle.

  “Are you sure those clothes were his?” Sebastian asks.

  “Who’s clothes?” Maribelle’s getting pretty fed up.

  “He wore them on the train.”

  “Who wore what?” She’s shouting now so we all stop talking and look up.

  “Maribelle, sit down,” I say. “I’ll explain everything.”

  But she doesn’t want to sit down, starts pacing the floor, runs her hands through her hair pulling strands from the constraint of the barrettes. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. The board’s going to kill me.”

  “We won’t tell anyone about this house,” TB assures her.

  She huffs. “And I should trust you?”

  My husband looks like a puppy being scolded. “What did I do?”

  Maribelle points at me. TB’s still lost, looking from one of us to the other.

  I stand. “We need to talk.”

  I take Maribelle’s hand and lead her toward the kitchen, look over my shoulder and send TB a comforting smile. Once we hit the kitchen, I close the door behind me.