Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (14 page)

Gilda's ears perked up; something about “the Furbos” sounded familiar and important—possibly connected with a clue.

“Remember?” Eugene said. “They're the friends who invited us over for a special dinner tonight—a real Minorcan feast.”

Minorcans
. Now Gilda remembered: Charlotte Furbo was Eugene's ex-girlfriend—
the one who left him at the altar
! “You're inviting the FURBOS to your wedding?!” Gilda blurted.

“Gilda, please,” said Mrs. Joyce. “That was very rude.”

“Does the name ‘Charlotte Furbo' mean anything to you, Mom?”

Eugene's face turned red.

“No, it doesn't,” said Mrs. Joyce.

“Charlotte Furbo happens to be the name of Eugene's old fiancée,” said Gilda, doing her best not to meet Eugene's annoyed glare. “Mrs. Castle told me.”

“Eugene,” said Mrs. Joyce, “I'm not sure I feel comfortable having your ex-girlfriend at our wedding.”

“I only invited Charlotte's
parents
,” he said. “The Furbos are old friends—like family to me. I don't know if I told you this yet, Patty, but I didn't have a father at all when I was growing up.” Eugene paused, looking across the bay as if his father might be out on the water somewhere. “One morning when I was a young child, my daddy got on the train at the St. Augustine station, and just never came back home. Well, it wasn't until I met Charlotte's daddy—Mr. Furbo—that I felt like I finally had a father. And you know—even though I'm a grown man, I value that. In fact, he taught me everything I know about fishing, cooking datil peppers—you name it. Just because Charlotte and I broke up doesn't mean I have to break up with my whole family now, does it?”

Listening to Eugene's story, Gilda had to admit she felt sympathy for her mother's husband-to-be.
So Eugene lost his dad, too!
she thought.
In fact, Eugene's loss was much worse than mine.... His dad left on purpose!

Gilda still didn't like Eugene much, but she decided she would try to cut him some slack since it probably wasn't his fault that he had no idea how to behave like a nice stepdad.

Mrs. Joyce's expression also softened with sympathy. “I can't imagine how hard that must have been, Eugene,” she said. “And I suppose it was a very long time ago that you were engaged to Charlotte, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was. Anyway, I'd like for you to meet the Furbos before the wedding. In fact, they suggested that we all come over for dinner tonight.”

“Hello!”

Gilda, Mrs. Joyce, and Eugene turned to see the approach of an elderly priest who was followed by two musicians—a harpist and a guitar player. The harpist, who happened to be blind, wore dark sunglasses and walked arm-in-arm with the guitar player, who pushed the harp on little wheels while also carrying his guitar over his shoulder. The three had their hands full with music stands, folding chairs, and instruments.

“Good to see you after all these years, Eugene,” said the priest, putting down two music stands and turning to Mr. Pook to shake his hand. “You've certainly changed!”

“It's been a long time, Father John.”

“Yes, it has.” The priest turned his attention to Mrs. Joyce. He squinted through his smile as he shook her hand, as if there were a puzzle in her face that he was trying to figure out. “You look
very
familiar,” he said. “Are you from this area?”

“She's from Michigan,” said Eugene hastily.

“I see.”

“I'm Gilda,” said Gilda, extending her hand. “I'm the daughter of the bride.”

“And will you be participating in the ceremony?”

“I'm reading an original poem.”

“Wonderful.”

“It's called ‘The Hour of Earthly Need.'”

“I see.”

“My son will also be here for the ceremony,” said Mrs. Joyce.

“He'll stop by if he can squeeze it into his schedule,” Gilda whispered.

“Gilda, please,” said Mrs. Joyce.

Gilda wondered if the priest had any interesting information about Eugene Pook's background. “Father John,” Gilda asked, “do you and Mr. Pook know each other from church?”

“Actually, I performed Eugene's first wedding.”

“His first wedding?!”

Both Eugene and Mrs. Joyce looked taken aback at this comment, and Father John quickly shook his head at his error. “What I meant to say was, I almost performed what
would
have been Eugene's wedding—or, what
should
have been.... Well, never mind that. Let's hope the second time does the trick. Right, Eugene?” Father John glanced at Mrs. Joyce nervously.

“Right.”

“I'm sure that the two of you have both known each other long enough to be certain that this is the right move. No matter what the age of the participants, marriage is a serious, sacred, and brave decision.”

Gilda coughed.
I bet he doesn't realize they only met face-to-face a couple weeks ago!
she thought.

“Good! Now—let's plan this ceremony so that everything goes perfectly
this time
!”

A
s she waited for her mother and Eugene to resolve their disagreement about whether the musicians should play “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring” or “Trumpet Voluntaire” to announce the beginning of the wedding ceremony, Gilda pulled out the crumpled piece of paper upon which she had written her wedding poem. To her surprise, her mother had said she loved the poem and Eugene had tolerated it (to her surprise, he commented that “the meter was off in a couple places”). Still it was about the best outcome she could hope for. She was considering whether to add another verse when a surprisingly cool breeze wafted up from the water and a large, white bird landed a short distance away, directly in front of a small chapel—the Shrine of Our Lady of La Leche.

What an amazing bird!
Gilda thought, wishing that Captain Jack were there to see it. Curious, Gilda cautiously attempted to approach the bird, which stood very still and seemed to look directly at her. Something about the way it stared so intently at her made Gilda think of something she had read about how spirits can take the form of an animal to deliver a message. A moment later, the bird turned away and walked directly into the chapel through the open door.

How unusual!
Gilda had a distinct and very Alice-in-Wonderland-ish feeling that the bird wanted her to follow.

The cool, silent shrine was devoted to motherhood, and at the altar, candles illuminated a painting of the Virgin Mary. Gilda looked around, but saw no sign of the large bird.

How could it just disappear?
Gilda wondered. She still felt as if the bird—or
somebody
—wanted her to find something in the chapel. But what?

Gilda decided to light a prayer candle for her father.

“Dad,”
she whispered at the end of her prayer,
“if you can hear me, please help me figure out why I saw a ghost—and help me survive this wedding!”

As she turned away from the prayer candles, Gilda spied something interesting on one of the wooden benches—a mysterious-looking book called
Relics of the Saints
. She picked up the heavy book and caught her breath when it immediately fell open to a page that had been marked with a small, white feather.

Gilda scanned a passage near the feather:

It's weird,
Gilda thought,
how parts of people's bodies can become seemingly magical objects.
What would I have done if someone had given me the opportunity to keep one of Dad's bones with me forever—say a shinbone to carry in my backpack or a finger bone to wear on a necklace? Would it be gross? Or would it seem like an extra-special good-luck charm?

“Interesting book, isn't it?”

Startled, Gilda looked up to see a petite old woman dressed in a traditional nun's habit watching her. The woman's leathery, brown skin was etched in wrinkles, but her eyes were bright and youthful. “Oh—I was just looking,” said Gilda, placing the book back on the bench.

“Please—you're welcome to read it.”

Gilda read a couple more sentences, but she felt the old woman's searching eyes observing her.

“It's the energy of all the hundreds of prayers—the concentration of all those positive intentions—that gives those reliquary objects their power,” said the nun.

“What do you mean?”

“We all know it's superstitious to believe in good-luck charms like four-leaf clovers, right? But miracles can happen. A four-leaf clover that has been the focus of many prayers could actually help protect you from evil and misfortune—especially if you believe that it can. It's just a way of physically carrying those prayers with you when you feel you're in danger.”

Gilda thought of the pewter crucifix from Grandmother McDoogle. Maybe it was because her grandmother and great-grandmother had held it in their own hands for so many years that the object had the power to make her feel safer. It was similar to her typewriter: The knowledge that her father's fingers had spent many hours touching the keyboard seemed to give the old machine a special magic when Gilda used it to write letters or reports of her investigations.

“Here.” The nun handed Gilda a candle inside a glass votive that bore a beautiful picture of an angel. “That's the archangel Michael—the slayer of demons. Take this for protection.”

Gilda stared at the candle, feeling both intrigued and disturbed that the nun had spontaneously given it to her.

“We all know someone who needs some help and courage,” said the nun.

Despite her interest in ghosts and psychic phenomena, stories about angels had always struck Gilda as saccharine fodder for women of an older generation, like her mother and Grandmother McDoogle. But now—standing in the old shrine with this elderly nun—the idea of calling on an angel for protection struck her as a potentially powerful idea.

She remembered a story her mother used to tell about guardian angels: “Everyone has one,” her mother had said. “And sometimes when times are tough, I'll find a little white feather in an unexpected place, like in my purse or on the seat of my car. It sounds silly, but I know it's a message from my angel that everything is eventually going to be okay.”
It's strange,
Gilda thought,
how Mom has always believed in angels but not ghosts, whereas I have always believed in ghosts but not necessarily angels.
She thought of Evelyn Castle's comment: “That's how the spirits in St. Augustine seem to me—more like ancestor spirits or guardian angels.”

I guess believing that Dad can still somehow watch over me from heaven is kind of like believing in a guardian angel,
Gilda thought.
Maybe that's what Darla needs, too—a guardian angel or some kind of psychic protection to make her feel safe from all the spirits she sees.

“Thanks for your help,” said Gilda. “I do know someone who needs this.”

“I thought you might,” said the nun. She handed Gilda some matches and a little bag for the candle. “Good luck to you,” she said.

With the protection candle in hand, Gilda left the chapel with renewed determination.
If Darla and I work together, maybe she'll help me figure out who the woman in white is
.

I
t's got to be the white lilies, Patty. Trust me on this one.”

“But, Eugene,” Mrs. Joyce protested, “I like pink roses much better.” The white lilies reminded Mrs. Joyce of the flowers that had topped her husband's casket at his funeral service. Their scent reminded her of the perfumed ladies who brought coffee cakes and casseroles to the house after the funeral.

“How about sunflowers?” Gilda suggested. “I love sunflowers.” The argument between her mother and Eugene over flowers struck Gilda as particularly silly following the experience she'd just had at the chapel. She was still thinking about the woman in white, and wondering whether Eugene might know anything about her.
He says he doesn't believe in ghosts,
Gilda thought.
But I doubt it's possible to live here for so many years without having some unusual experiences in that house.

“Eugene,” Gilda ventured as they walked from the mission toward Water Street, “have you ever seen a ghost around here?”

“Like I told you before: There ain't no ghost but the Holy Ghost.”

“Yes, I remember, but let me ask you this: Have you ever heard any
ghost stories
about a woman wearing a white dress who walks around your neighborhood?”

“Gilda, that's a bit macabre,” said Mrs. Joyce.

“I know,” said Gilda. “But someone told me she saw a ghost like that
near Mr. Pook's house
, so I just wondered.”

Eugene frowned and regarded Gilda with a sidelong glance. “You do like your ghost stories, don't you, Miss Gilda?”

“Gilda has been interested in ghost hunting ever since her dad died,” Mrs. Joyce explained, touching Gilda's arm gently.