Ghosts of Graveyards Past (12 page)

“How about the town square?” he suggested, surprising her with the location mere blocks away.

Jenna hesitated, remembering their awkward exchange the day before. “I don't want to inconvenience you. Since your work must keep you busy.”

After a short pause he spoke. “It's not a problem. I can be there if you can.”

“Well, great,” she said, her bag jostling against her side as she moved down the sidewalk. She could wait for him on one of the benches in the square, using the extra time to go over her notes from the Maudell interview.

“Sorry I wasn't Joyce,” he added, referencing their mix-up.

“Don't be. It's better for me if we talk before I speak with my agent again. The more information I have on this project, the more likely it is to get the attention it deserves.”

“Then your agent isn't a fan of the book?” He sounded confused by the notion, perhaps wondering how the project made it past the idea phase if this was true.

“She isn't convinced that Sylvan Spring should be a part of it,” Jenna explained. “But I think she will be after today.” Her fingers gave a loving pat to her knapsack as she said this, imagining the new material stowed inside. Tonight she would transfer the notes to electronic files, along with her initial thoughts and questions.

As she rounded the corner, the town square came into view. There was only one figure seated among its benches—a man whose face was angled towards the ground. Glancing up, he waved a cellphone in greeting.

Jenna's steps slowed, her eyes widening in disbelief. She lowered her phone. “You already planned to meet me. Before we spoke.”

“That's true.” A spark of humor surfaced in the blue depths. “Being a headstone carver doesn't ban me from the land of the living, you know. Though some might argue I've got more in common with the other side.”

He's a little different.
The county clerk's words echoed through her mind, making her wonder how much he knew of the gossip surrounding his habits.

She sat beside him and tucked her cellphone into her bag. “I didn't mean it that way. It's just…you didn't seem very interested in this project yesterday.”

“That's partly why I came,” he said. “To apologize for being so short with you. It was rude and unprofessional.” He had taken more care with his appearance this time. Dressed in jeans and a dark blazer, he had exchanged the rag on his hand for a real bandage. He had shaved as well, though he seemed to be one of those men who wore a permanent shadow on their jaw.

“You had the right not to get involved,” she told him. “Besides, I have a habit of expecting everyone to share my passions. It can make me come on too strong, sometimes.”

He said nothing, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench. There was a quiet intensity about him that made her worried of frightening him away. Like a bird perched in a tree, wary of human approach.

She pulled her latest notes from her bag. “I really do appreciate your meeting me here. We could have spoken at your business, though.”

He didn't answer, but instead retrieved a square of paper from his back pocket. Unfolding it, he revealed another gravestone rubbing of the moon symbol. Except, this one was done in chalk rather than the crayon Jenna preferred to use.

“Where did you get this?” She was breathless as she stared at it. Accepting the page from his hand, she smoothed its creases to study the block lettering from the headstone that spelled out the name
L. R. Lesley
.

“My wife made it. She, uh, used to visit the family graves at the old Lesley homestead. She took flowers, sometimes. There were two more rubbings like this one—a mother, father, and child.”

She registered his use of past tense, the hitch in his voice. “Your wife—” she began.

“Died,” he answered, quickly. “Two years ago. It was rather sudden.”

Jenna lowered the piece of paper to catch his gaze. She gentled her voice. “I'm sorry.”

He rubbed the bandage on his hand, a habit she had noticed when they first spoke at his shop. Feeling for the ring beneath, she guessed, or else its absence.

“What was she like?” A bold question. It didn't seem to offend him, though, judging from the way his features softened.

“She was…one of those naturally cheerful people. Kind to everyone, liked by everyone.”

Sympathy coursed through her, along with a sense of admiration for the person described. “She sounds lovely,” Jenna told him. “I think she must have appreciated history to make this stone rubbing. And to take the flowers to those graves.”

“She did.” His gaze shifted to study the shops across the street, eyes heavy with some emotion she couldn't identify. Grief, bitterness—maybe both. Clearing his throat, he said, “I found something else—or rather, guessed it. The symbol on the gravestones is Celtic.”

She followed his gaze to the festival banner that waved in the wind. The ancient signs did bear a strong resemblance to the ones from the cemetery. Impressed, she asked, “How did you think of it?”

“The newspaper,” he admitted. “There was a picture of school children painting the symbols for the heritage society. The Lesley family immigrated from that part of the world, so it just kind of fell into place.” Cleary, he'd been thinking about this, despite his initial disinterest.

She searched his face for the reason why, finding the same closed expression as before. “Care to walk?” He asked in a causal tone as he rose from the bench.

They passed beneath striped awnings, pausing here and there to study a window display.

The people who walked by would sometimes offer Taggart a brief nod while glancing curiously at Jenna.

Con didn't seem to notice this, even when a group of kids snickered at them from a patio table by the ice cream shop. Did he always draw this much attention? The town must resent his habits, or else they believed him to have a secret worth hiding in his secluded workshop.

When they reached the jewelry store, the rings Mr. Stroud had mentioned were in the window, their intricate knots fashioned from silver and brass.

She paused to admire them, noticing the similarity between some of these designs and the one from the gravestone rubbings. “So the moon engraving on the stones must have a special meaning,” she said, hands stuffed in the pockets of her suede jacket. “The local funeral director told me the festival is connected to the old beliefs from the mother country. Sort of a cultural tribute to the founding families.”

“I called the society in charge of the festival,” Con told her as they resumed walking. “They told me it was an ancient and fairly famous Pictish symbol—that's a Celtic tribe, apparently. The symbol's known as a Crescent V-Rod.”

“V-Rod,” she repeated. “So that
is
a letter superimposed over the half moon.”

“Yes and no. It's actually an arrow, bent in the shape of a ‘V'. Or so they said.”

A group of shoppers passed by, forcing Jenna closer to Con. Her hand brushed his arm as she asked, “And the symbol's meaning? They must have said if it stands for something.”

“There's a dispute about that. From what I understand, it's been found on numerous old stones in Scotland and Ireland, graves and other types of monuments. But there's no definitive source for its meaning.” Somewhat sheepishly, he added, “It's sometimes viewed as a death symbol.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Since it's on a headstone.”

They had drifted apart again, the sidewalk empty before them. Jenna frowned, thinking of the questions that still remained. “But why do so many of the stones have the same symbol—but not all of them, for instance? Especially the ones at the Lesley homestead, which aren't part of the cemetery.”

“I think the Lesley markers were made by a different carver,” Con said. “They were fieldstones, and the carvings were shallower than the rubbings you took from the cemetery. Most likely, it was the work of a friend or family member, rather than a local craftsman. Whoever carved the rest, I mean.”

She paused again, their reflections mirrored in the windows of the Moonspell shop. “Were there dates of death listed for the Lesley graves?”

“I'm afraid not. Just names and the V-Rod.”

In the store's display window, crystal rocks winked in the afternoon sun. Cards were propped in front of each one, identifying its properties and purpose in swirling letters. Energy conductors to destroy negativity or create harmony in the living space.

They moved on, passing advertisements for special sales at the bookstore and the Potter's Shed. After cutting some tentative glances in her direction, Con spoke again. “Your necklace—does it have a personal meaning? If you don't mind my asking.”

“My faith,” she answered, catching the cross-shaped ornament between her fingers. “I've been a Christian over half my life. This was a gift from my parents when I finished high school.”

The ghost of a smile tugged his mouth, the first she had really seen from him. “Then we have something in common,” he said. “Or, I should say, something else. Since we both make a living from the past.”

Encouraged by this second glimpse into his personal life, she returned a smile that was warmer and fuller than his. “That's true.” she admitted. “Our jobs are similar. Except that yours is harder and a little more rare. Not just anyone can create something so beautiful.”

The compliment seemed to embarrass him, though. He glanced away from her, seemingly admiring the window display they were passing. “It's not exactly in demand. Lasers and computers can duplicate an image so perfectly on a headstone that hand carving seems flawed by comparison.”

“But unique,” she said.

“Expensive, too. A few thousand, depending on the detail and type of stone.”

Was he arguing as a way to put more distance between them? Maybe he was uncomfortable when he realized how close he'd come to sharing personal details with a stranger. First about his wife, then his faith, with his work as the tipping point.

Determined to close the gap again, Jenna slowed her steps.

It forced his to do the same, until they stood face to face beneath a sign that creaked in the wind.

“You must know how special the craft is,” she insisted. “Especially as someone who's fighting to preserve it. What you're doing is important to so many people, not just historians.”

Some of the tension disappeared from his expression with the words.

She seized the advantage. “Hand carved stones are—well, like a story. The surface is fascinating, but the hidden details are the ones we want to understand. They tell us something about the person who died, as well as the craftsman who made the memorial.”

She was thinking of the slave headstones, with their simple but loving gestures of remembrance. “It's the only reason I can write this book,” she said. “The stones are the stories—I'm just trying to flesh out the hidden details.”

Agreement crept slowly into his eyes, their gaze meeting hers more deeply than before. “That was…persuasive. Your readers may find themselves drawn to old, crumbling monuments when this is done. Taking pictures of stranger's graves at their local churchyard.” Teasing seemed as uncharacteristic for the mason as a smile.

Caught by surprise, she didn't answer right away, taking in this new facet of his personality, until the silence was filled by a bell's jingle, the door to the nearby shop opening.

The woman who emerged was middle-aged and somewhat stocky, with auburn tresses pinned beneath a handkerchief.

“Afternoon,” she greeted Jenna, her gaze lighting with recognition when it fell on the craftsman. Going up to him, she squeezed his shoulder in a half hug as she asked, “How are you, dear? Haven't seen you for some time, not since you brought the white sage by.”

The herb shop must be hers then. Jenna vaguely recalled seeing her with a tray of plants her first morning in town.

Returning the hug, Con asked, “Were they good for business? They look sort of stunted this year.”

“Very popular. They're rare, you know—takes a special touch to get them established.” Her voice dropped, as if sharing a secret. Taking notice of Jenna again, her lips formed a puzzled smile. “Who's your friend, then?” she asked.

“Miss Cade needed some advice on headstone symbols,” he replied, gaze flicking apologetically in Jenna's direction. “She's doing research for a book.”

“How exciting.” The woman looked more closely, as if deciding whether she recognized her from a book jacket. Of course, most people abandoned this activity once the word
non-fiction
was mentioned. No one but college students and history buffs were likely to recognize her name, the glamour of fame left to novelists.

Extending a hand, the woman said, “Amelia Girvin. Known as the herb lady to my customers.”

“I like your shop,” Jenna said as she nodded to the display of exotic colored jars. “My grandmother grew herbs in a window box, I remember. She taught me how to crush them for potpourri.”

“Makes for a strong fragrance,” the woman agreed. “I'll be selling my own special blends at the festival this weekend. Come by the booth if you're still in town. “

“I will,” she said.

Checking her watch, the herbalist made an exasperated sound. “I'm almost late. You know how I am,” she told Con. “Always late when I have a lunch appointment.”

“I know,” he said. “Better get going.” He squeezed her hand in quiet farewell.

Halfway across the street, she turned back and called, “I'll keep an eye out for that book.”

Jenna waved, wondering how she knew Con Taggart when no one else bothered to speak to him. Glancing round, she saw he was already walking ahead of her, following the sidewalk to where it turned at the corner.

“You grow herbs,” she said, catching up with him. It was a question as much as a statement, the surprise evident to her own ears. She knew he worked with his hands, but the yard around his farmhouse had seemed almost as neglected as the wooded cemetery.