Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (24 page)

Some people stared at me and Chance, but I was so happy at that moment, I didn't give a hoot. I wonder if Mama and Daddy will hear about it. They would be so angry with me. They shouldn't be. Chance comes from a
St. Augustine family of doctors, teachers, musicians, and
barbecue experts—a family as old and proud as ours, if you think about it! But Chance and I are from different sides of the same world.

 

So I just told them the simple truth. “Because I love
someone else,” I said. And then I told them who.

B
ut it isn't like them to decide they just aren't showing up!” Mrs. Joyce frowned at the letter Eugene had presented to her. She sat in the beauty parlor with her auburn hair swept back in a French twist. A manicurist painted her fingernails with pink polish as she scrutinized the letter for the third time:

Eugene had hastily typed the note on Gilda's old typewriter, hoping that this ruse would at least buy him some time until he figured out what—if anything—he would do with Gilda and Stephen.

“There's something very strange about this letter!” Mrs. Joyce squinted at the words. “It looks like the sort of note Gilda would write on her typewriter,” she said, “but there's something odd about it. I can't explain why, but it doesn't really
sound
like her!” Mrs. Joyce reread the letter with a concerned expression, her hand covering her mouth. “Do you think they got into some kind of trouble last night?” She looked up at Eugene. “I'm wondering if they did something stupid like sneaking some of the wedding champagne. Gilda actually spelled Stephen's name wrong here!”

“They're teenagers,” said Eugene. “We knew this wedding might be pretty upsetting for them, so maybe this is their way of coping. Besides, Gilda loves that ghost-hunting stuff. She probably couldn't resist on Halloween.”

“Yes—but not showing up for the wedding?!” Mrs. Joyce remembered the argument she and Gilda had had the day before and the doubts Gilda had expressed. Had Gilda actually been so angry she was willing to skip the entire ceremony and convince Stephen to do the same?

“Believe me, I've heard of kids doing worse,” said Eugene. “You know, I thought I heard them sneak out the door early this morning. . . . I just wish I had gotten up to talk to them.”

“Well, I can't very well get married without my children there for the ceremony!”

Eugene realized he had backed himself into a very tight corner. “Patty,” he said, standing behind Mrs. Joyce and speaking to her reflection in the mirror, “just take a look at yourself. You look beautiful. See how that diamond ring shines on your finger! This is
our
day. It's a small wedding anyway—small and perfect. Really, the only two people who need to be there at all are you and me.”

Mrs. Joyce looked in the mirror and saw that Eugene was right. With her hair, makeup, and dress complete, she had been transformed—younger and more beautiful than she had looked in years. And there was Eugene—his reflection so hopeful—almost pleading as he stood next to her. “This is the happiest day of my life,” he said, gazing at Mrs. Joyce's reflection. “And I have something very special for you to wear to the wedding.”

Eugene gave her a small box and she opened it. Inside, she found a pearl necklace.

“It belonged to my grandmother,” said Eugene. “And I want you to have it.”

The manicurist shook her head. “So, so sweet!” she murmured. “I wish I had a husband like you, Mr. Pook!”

Eugene chuckled. “There,” he said, helping Mrs. Joyce adjust the clasp of the necklace.

“Thank you, Eugene. It's lovely. But I—”

“Now—don't you worry about Gilda and Stephen. I reckon they'll have a change of heart and turn up for the wedding at the last minute. Why let a teenage mistake spoil our whole day after all these preparations?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Joyce, more because she couldn't imagine disappointing everyone—the priest, the musicians, the Furbos, the friends Gilda invited—than because she actually agreed.
But I'm going to kill Gilda and Stephen when I see them!
she thought.

D
arla and her mother were the first guests to arrive for the wedding; the musicians were just sitting down to begin their prelude music. As the soft sounds of guitar and harp filled the air, Darla observed Mrs. Joyce and Eugene as they stood nearby, speaking earnestly with the priest.

Where is Gilda?
Darla wondered. It seemed strange that she and her brother hadn't arrived yet.

An elderly couple named the Furbos arrived and said hello to Darla's mother. Darla scrutinized their suntanned, wrinkled faces as she recalled Gilda's theory:
“I think the Furbos killed Charlotte.”

Darla felt very suddenly unwell. A weight pressed down upon her chest and she felt as if there wasn't quite enough air to breathe, even though a gentle breeze was blowing off the bay. It was a feeling that she recognized all too well—the sense that someone was staring at her intensely—someone that nobody else could see.

Think about your guardian angel,
Darla reminded herself.
No spirits can touch you unless you invite them in.

Turning to glance behind, Darla saw exactly what she feared:
The woman in white stood watching her from a short distance away
. Clearly, nobody else saw the ghostly bride wearing a bloodstained wedding gown. Nobody else saw Charlotte's ghost. Darla quickly faced forward in her seat, not wanting to see the vision.
Gilda would tell me to make contact with her—to try to find out what she wants,
Darla told herself. But without Gilda there, she felt too terrified to think like an investigator. She hadn't forgotten the day when this same ghost led her into Mr. Pook's house—to the vision that traumatized her for years afterward.