Ghosts of Graveyards Past (19 page)

“I haven't been to church in a while,” he admitted. Shame crept over his features in the form of a blush. Helpless to cover it, he let another confession slip out, saying, “My faith was sort of put on the back burner after Colleen died. Not because I'm angry or anything, just kind of…numb.”

“But you still pray, I hope.” Her tone was more gentle concern than judgment as she met his gaze over the headstone. “You don't have to be in church for that. He wants to hear from you no matter what.”

“I try to,” he said. Resisting the urge to look away, he added, “It's more automatic than anything. But it can lighten the load when I let it.”

“Good,” she said. A more hesitant edge peppered the next words she spoke. “Can I ask how she died?”

Somehow, the words tumbled from his mouth unchecked, voice rough with emotion. “A brain aneurysm. She just collapsed apparently, no warning except for something about a headache—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “She died before the ambulance could get there, before anyone could help. The hospital said it was bleeding in her brain, that she never had a chance.”

“So you weren't there when it happened.” The words were little more than a whisper. Regret lined her face, the hint of tears in her glance. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's all right,” he said. “I should be able to talk about it after two years.”

She drew her legs up, letting her chin rest thoughtfully on her knees. “But you're still in pain.”

“There's no expiration date on grief,” he said, an expression his former instructor was fond of using. “Mine has run the same course as most people's, I guess. I visit Colleen's grave, talk to her sometimes…it helps.”

“I saw you there,” she said as if grasping something that puzzled her before. “My second day in town, when I visited the main cemetery. You were by this grave with an incredible ivy pattern.”

“Plants were her livelihood,” he explained. “She co-ran the herb shop in town, but she grew all kinds in her private garden. English Ivy was her favorite—she wouldn't let me trim the vine on our house until it started growing down the chimney.”

The fact he had been the one to carve the headstone was something that went without saying. As did the ivy leaf's symbolism for love beyond the grave, a coincidence that tore ragged sobs from his throat the first time he discovered it.

A raven's cry echoed harshly through the woods, startling him from the memory. Black wings cut the air as it flew from the branches in a nearby tree.

“Look,” she said, pointing where it sailed down to one of the damaged headstones. Perching there, it turned a beady, inquisitive eye on them.

“Would your Dr. Moore have seen that as an omen?” he wondered. Half-teasing, half-serious he looked at the symbol carved into the stone before them. “For someone who supposedly scorned the town's superstition, she bore its stamp in death.”

Jenna frowned. “I think she hated their fear. Maybe because it meant believing in something she couldn't explain. Although, I think the idea of God's existence troubled her more than she let on.”

“You've given this a lot of thought,” he said. “Really immersed yourself in it.”

A flush tinged her cheeks. “I tend to get emotionally involved in my research. Reading her private thoughts, it's almost like I know her. Like she's writing to me, like we're sharing this whole strange experience together.” She paused, a look of discomfort replacing the burst of enthusiasm. “Too creepy?”

Laughter was hardly a reflex action for Con these days, making him all the more surprised by the sound that worked past his lips as one hand rose to block it.

Though she didn't seem to mind at all, her mouth curving in response to his warmth.

“Don't worry,” he told her. “Tombstone carvers have a higher threshold for the strange than most people.”

“I guess that's true. Most people would say I'm crazy, but you…” She trailed off, a confused look appearing on her face. Pushing herself up from the ground, she moved to examine another headstone, its surface stained green.

“This moss is pretty entrenched.” She scraped a fingernail along the sediment, face angled away from his as she inspected it.

On purpose, he supposed, their roles reversed as she seemed suddenly unsure of herself.

Glancing back, she offered, “Want to start on one of the others? There's over twenty more, some worse off than this stone.”

He took the hint, feeling a breather was needed. Physically, they were too close at this moment for people who met just days ago. Con never trusted anyone this quickly, but he assumed this girl was used to forging impulsive connections. Part of the job even as someone who traveled in search of other people's stories and lives.

Was that her interest in him—to get his story, the same as the people whose resting place lay beneath their feet? He dropped this notion in favor of studying the yard around him.

A cursory glance revealed more than half its stones were broken in some way or other. Some were reduced to nothing but fragments buried in the earth; others had split apart with cracks as fine as a spider's webbing. Only one wrong tap was needed to leave them in a heap, he knew, gauging the damage with a knowledgeable eye.

He was cleaning the mildew from one of the monuments engraved with the Celtic V-rod, when Jenna came beside him, camera in hand. “Does that say they were a teacher?” she asked. Her hand reached excitedly for the newly polished letters, as she bent closer.

“Anne Mitchell, School Teacher,” he read from the stone. “Fifty-one years.”

“Where did I read that name before?” She chewed her bottom lip, mind working to recover the information. “Not the doctor's journal, but somewhere…oh, right. A girl's letter to her brother in the Confederate Army. It said she was going to be a teacher if someone named Miss Mitchell decided to retire.”

“Maybe she didn't have a choice,” he said, tapping the moon engraving.

He glanced up from the stone to find her raiding the backpack she'd brought that morning. He was puzzled to see her remove a set of 8x10 mirror tiles and arrange them against some nearby tombstones.

A little tweaking angled the glass to cast the sunlight against the teacher's headstone. “Ta-da,” she grinned. “Neat right? Helps the carving stand out for a clear picture of the headstone.”

“Where'd you pick that up?” He raised his brows at the unconventional method he'd only seen referenced in old genealogy manuals.

“My college boyfriend, actually.”

The answer surprised him, as did the flash of jealousy that followed. With no wedding band, he assumed she was single. Which didn't rule out a serious relationship, or even a fiancé, come to think of it.

“He must've been a history major, too,” Con supposed, picturing a serious type as he spoke, the kind who wore glasses and a loosened necktie. Someone who wowed their colleagues with obscure historical facts collected for their groundbreaking dissertation.

“Nope.” She smiled, adjusting the camera lens for a closer shot. “Photography student. He worked summers as a cemetery caretaker and thought we should use the grounds as a backdrop for a class project. Probably where I got the idea for this book.”

“Maybe you should dedicate it to him,” he joked, pushing the subject further than he intended. “Since he inspired you, I mean. Unless you're not on good terms.”

“Mm.” A noncommittal sound, as she snapped a photo, then another. “We didn't really break up, just sort of …petered out. No chemistry, I guess.”

He waited for her to reference a newer connection, maybe someone from her home city or a fellow writer she considered more than a friend.

Instead, she let out a gasp as a sudden breeze ruffled her hair and coat, lifting stray locks of gold from her shoulders. Leaves fluttered down to circle her, red and yellow hues she tipped her face back to meet with a smile. “Aren't they gorgeous?” she called, laughing as a few were caught in her scarf and hair, the camera in her hand neglected for the passing moment.

Con put the tools aside, dusting his hands against a pair of already faded jeans, a smile cracking his face as he offered, “How about a break?”

 



 

“Sweet tea,” Jenna surmised, taking a sip from the tumbler. “Genuine Southern style, too.”

She pushed aside her notepad and pencil, making room for the craftsman to fill a second glass with the rich brew. Dark liquid splashed over a bed of frozen cubes as he noted, “The syrup can be too much for some people. It took me years to get used to it, but I'm guessing you were raised on it.”

“I was,” she said, fingers cupping the glass fondly. “My grandmother made a raspberry version sometimes. She made sun tea, as well, but that seems kind of risky these days.”

“So do a lot of old-fashioned things,” he told her, pulling out the chair across from hers.

They were seated in the farmhouse's rustic kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows to show off a pine floor and white, distressed cabinets. A stone hearth pointed to the original owner's handiwork, but all the modern conveniences were present, too.

“Do you know which family built this place?” she asked. “You said it belonged to one of the first settlers.” Part of her was thinking of its close proximity to the woods, wondering if the residents were someone she would recognize from her research.

“The history is kind of sketchy,” he answered. “It changed hands a lot of times, but no one had lived in it for about thirty years. Part of the roof had crashed in, a lot of the floor was rotted—a stray herb garden out back was pretty much the only sign of life.”

This made her glance to the window, where bundles of rosemary and basil were strung to air dry. “You decided to rescue it,” she guessed. “To repair the damage like the headstones in your mason shop.”

“Actually,” he said, reaching for his tumbler, “that came later. The first time I saw it…well, I helped break the windows out.”

Jenna almost choked on her tea. “Excuse me?” she asked, eyes widening as she took in the full meaning of his words.

“I kind of…fell in with the wrong crowd in high school,” he explained. “Breaking curfew, a little drinking, some vandalism. We even smashed some of the old headstones in the town cemetery.”

“You're kidding.” She couldn't reconcile this image with the craftsman's serious demeanor. Not when he chiseled stone for a living and handled the ones from the neglected cemetery with such care and precision.

“It's true,” he insisted. “It was how I became Mr. Sawyer's apprentice— reparation for my crimes, except I ended up staying of my free will later on.”

She forgot her tea, arms folded on the table as she absorbed more details from his unlikely start. The years of training under Mr. Sawyer's careful eye; the arguments with his parents about a youthful mistake snowballing into a career.

“They thought I would find something else if I went to college,” he said. “But mostly, I think they were surprised that I ended up staying in Sylvan Spring, while they moved back to Kansas. Ironic, since my dad's job was the only reason we came here in the first place.”

“My folks thought I would teach history instead of writing about it,” she recalled. “There were some doubts on their part, but they told me to follow my instincts. Faith was a big part of it, too, since it was something I felt called to do.” A laugh escaped as she added, “The travel part doesn't sit too well with them, though. I spend more time in motels than the apartment I'm leasing. They've lived in the same neighborhood their whole lives, so it's hard for them to understand.”

“No other ties to home?” he asked, curiosity buried in the blue stare. “I assumed there must have been someone after the photography major. You know, a more serious connection.”

After their discussion in the cemetery, it seemed wrong to hold back details of her romantic experiences. Even if there wasn't much to tell, considering her last relationship had been a long distance one with a documentary writer. That had lasted mere weeks, the same forces that brought them together ultimately making it impossible to find time for each other.

“I'm not seeing anyone,” she admitted at last. “Relationships are hard to build between the hours of research. Another reason for the family to question what I'm doing, though it's said with good intentions.”

He smiled, a half-curve of the mouth that seemed almost boyish. “Your family sounds close,” he said. “My parents appreciate what I do in their own way, but I think it's hard for them to explain it to others. It can sound kind of morbid telling people your son makes gravestones for a living.”

“No one who's seen it could think so.” Warmth had crept into her voice before she realized it, her admiration for the work extending to its creator. If he guessed her thoughts, the only sign was in the gaze that cut away from hers.

Con cleared his throat as he changed the subject.

“To answer your first question, the house is from the 1830s. I wasn't sure any of it could be salvaged, but the building inspector said the foundation was sound. We ended up replacing the floor and roof, but the layout and stonework are basically the same.”

Her gaze roamed the small interior, trying to picture how it might have looked back then. No sink or fridge, of course, and no stove, with the hearth used to cook their meals instead. They would have gotten their water from the spring, or maybe a water well, if one was closer.

It occurred to her that Dr. Moore might have been here, might have shared tea with someone in this same kitchen more than a hundred years ago. A shiver passed through her with the thought, picturing time as a thin veil between her and the room's former occupants. Not ghosts, but shadows of the past, the kind she could reach out and touch if only the right information could be found.