Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (18 page)

Everything about Matt was angular with hard edges. His lips, however, were incredibly soft. The kiss itself was more than she could ever have expected: just the right amount of pressure, of wetness, of caressing. But it was what went through her mind that set it apart from others she’d had. Suddenly, they weren’t Matt and Taryn sitting on a bench in the Opryland Hotel. They were on a boat, a gondola, and moving down the canals in Venice. And then she was in starched linens, a hoop skirt, and his skin was as black as coal. They changed over and over again until her head was dizzy.

When they pulled apart, it took her a moment to even remember where they were. He’d just been Matt then, thin with shaggy hair and an awkward build.

Nothing ever happened again. He took her home and didn’t see her until New Year’s Eve. They never talked about the kiss.

He’d had his chance, both before and after Andrew. He never took it. He couldn’t be mad, now, that she was trying to move on.

T
he phone rang late, nearly midnight. She must have fallen asleep watching television because the sound was far away, like an echo. When she answered the call she felt disoriented and lost.

“Taryn?!” It was Daniel and he was frantic.

“Daniel, are you okay?” She rubbed at her eyes and sat up in bed. It was dark, the television screen cast an eerie glow about her room. She fumbled for the switch on her lamp and looked at the clock on the nightstand. “What’s the matter?”

“The tavern’s on fire!” he shouted. “It’s in flames.”

“What!” Jumping out of bed, she ran to her window as though she could actually see the tavern through the miles. “What happened?”

“We don’t know. The fire chief is here. They put everything out. Well, mostly. You can still see flames. The worst of it is gone. It got the back part, half of the tavern. They think it might have been arson.”

“Oh my God,” Taryn cried. “Why would somebody do that?”

“Insurance money,” Daniel replied bitterly. “People do shit like this all the time. They called me and I got here as fast as I could. Luckily, someone was driving down the highway and saw the smoke and flames and called the police. If they hadn’t been quick the whole thing would’ve been gone.”

“I am so sorry,” she apologized. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, well, if it’s someone trying to cause trouble they may be back. I think it’s important from now on that you only come out here in the daytime. Not by yourself at night,” he lectured.

“No worries. I don’t do night trips anymore,” she promised. “Take care and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She hung up the phone feeling dazed. Who the hell would do something like that? The building had stood more than one-hundred fifty years and someone just randomly one day decided to destroy it, quite possibly for the fun of it? People were crazy.

A few minutes later her phone beeped. It was Matt.

“Found your descendent. Sent her an email and pretended to be you. Hear from her soon.”

F
rom the front, at least, the tavern appeared intact. Or, at least, as intact as it had looked since her arrival. She could smell an acrid, charred scent, though, and thin wisps of smoke were still curling into the sky. When she walked around to the back she could see half a dozen firemen trudging through the ruins and poking at piles of black lumber and bricks, putting out small flames with hoses. The entire tavern part was gone, leaving a gaping hole in the back, making it look like someone who’d been caught with their skirts up. It was overcast and calling for rain. What even a week of being exposed could do to that part of the house might just be irreversible.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Daniel sighed. “The back of the house there being open. Some friends got together with tarps and big tents and stuff. We’re going to cover it up as soon as the firemen leave.”

That would help, for now. “Do they have any idea who did this?”

Daniel shrugged. He looked rough and wild, like he’d been up all night. There were even smudges of black on his face as though, he, too had tried to jump into the rubble and pull something out. “They think maybe just kids. Only one who would stand to gain anything by setting it on fire is the owners and they’re in New York this week, visiting family.”

“Doesn’t mean they couldn’t have hired someone to do it,” Taryn pointed out.

“Yeah, I know. Fact is, it doesn’t matter. This will put us so far over our projected budget I don’t think we’ll ever get there now. We only have a week.”

“What’s your campaign up to?”

“That’s the thing; it was actually doing pretty good. We were up to almost $8,000. My professor, the one who pulled out? He had a change of heart and went back in. Wouldn’t tell me why. Brought in some other friends, too.”

Taryn smiled and patted him on the arm. “Well, maybe this will turn into a blessing in disguise. People like to jump in and help during tragedies. You never know. It might bring in even more money.”

“I know,” Daniel tugged at his bears peppered with ash. “I thought about it. But damn it, why the tavern? That part hadn’t even changed much since the 1800s.”

W
hen Taryn got back to the B&B she turned off the television, put a CD in her laptop (Caroline Herring’s haunting “Lantana”) and brought out a clean canvas. In her painting for Daniel and his organization she’d been working on a profile of the inn and the tavern, showing a little bit of everything. It wasn’t a difficult project because as poor of shape as the building was in, it was still whole. She didn’t have to use her talent for anything more than prettying it up, more or less.

Now, with the tavern gone, she focused on doing what she did best–seeing things that weren’t there. This picture would be completely dedicated to the tavern end and nothing else. She had tons of photographs of it and her memory would serve her as well. The rest she would make up.

On the top part of the canvas she used charcoal to sketch the exterior of the tavern. It was one story, brick, with a line of windows running down the side. A small porch extended from the side entrance, just big enough for two or three people to stand on at once.

At the bottom she sketched the interior. Here, she drew tables, a bar, chairs, a wide enough place at the back that could be used for dancing. She didn’t include any people, but left plates and bowls on the table, glasses on the bar, lanterns lit…it appeared as though everyone had simply got up and walked away one night. The two images she blended together with the front of the inn between them so both appeared to fade in and out of it.

It took her nearly two hours to do the rendering and she went through three charcoal sticks. By then, she was exhausted and hungry. She was almost finished with the main painting, but would work on this one in the evenings and then present it as a gift to Daniel before she left. If they were able to raise the money they might be able to use it. If not, she hoped he would at least appreciate it for sentimental value.

Dear Taryn,

It was so nice to hear from you. I’ve recently gotten into genealogy, thanks to Ancestry.com, so your email came as a wonderful surprise to me. I know a little about my great-great grandfather Elijah from stories my grandpa told. I also knew of his sister, Permelia, but mostly from the letters she sent home. Although she never returned to Boston after moving to Indiana to be with her husband, she wrote home frequently. She corresponded regularly with her sister, my great-great-great Aunt Lucy, and her mother. As an only child and descendent I was lucky enough to acquire these when my mother passed away recently.

I’ve scanned the letters I have and attached them. There aren’t too many but I hope they help. Please let me know if I can help you in any other way.

I’d love to see any pictures you’ve taken and look at your painting once it’s finished. I’ve seen one image of the tavern in an old history book, but it wasn’t very plain.

Sincerely,

Eve

Taryn closed her eyes, exhilaration rushing through her. Matt had come through for her; she was finally going to get somewhere. The fire was a slap in the face; seeing the damage was awful. But then, when he told her about the email, she’d been uplifted. Letters would definitely help, Taryn thought with excitement. If nothing else they would give her an insight to Permelia’s personality and maybe a little more information as to what she might want.

Settling down into her pillow, Taryn started reading.

October 1, 1839

Dear Lucy,

We arrived by stagecoach yesterday and the ride was not as awful as I’d feared. The air was cold in the evening but I was wrapped snuggly and there were blankets and rugs to help take the chill off. I am sure you want to hear all about my marriage and not my transportation, however.

I met James three days ago. He was awaiting my arrival and was almost exactly the way he’d described himself. I say “almost” because I find him much more attractive than what he had boasted. He is a tall man with black hair and blue eyes. He says his ancestors are from Ireland, although he has been here for three generations. He is lively of spirit and animated. He can tell raucous jokes with the other men and is yet still tender and gentle with me. He has made me laugh many times on the journey and for that I am grateful.

The tavern is much pleasanter than expected. We have a set of rooms that are spacious and well-equipped. My trunks take up much space but James doesn’t mind. I know Father is not keen on my being a proprietor of such an establishment but, I can assure you, it is a well-respected title here and James is looked upon in favor.

We do have many people working here. We have several servants who help with the cooking, the cleaning, the maintenance. Lydia has been with James from the beginning. She is the cook and her husband, Paul, takes care of the horses. We’ve made close friends with one another and she’s teaching me what I need to know.

Please write when you are able to.

Much love,

Permelia

September 22, 1840

Dear Lucy,

It is difficult to believe I have lived here for almost a year. The first few months were lonely and I was terribly homesick. I thought of you constantly and cried myself to sleep on many occasions. Being an adult is more difficult than I imagined. It’s difficult enough to be a wife; looking after dozens of strangers every night and ensuring that each traveler is well taken care of and tended to is nigh on exhausting. Many times I’ve longed to be back in Boston with you, walking through the gardens or enjoying a recital. Simply laughing again with another woman would be ideal. I do feel, however, that I am becoming accustomed to this life and it is starting to bring me joy. I enjoy meeting the new travelers, hearing their stories, and tending to them. We haven’t any children yet but I think of those weary souls as mine, in a sense.

I am sorry Father is still not speaking of me. I did write him a letter but he did not respond. Please tell him I send my love.

Permelia

February 5, 1841

Dearest Mother,

I do hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I think about you daily and wonder how you are doing. I have settled into my role here at Griffith Tavern and although there are days that are trying, I do love it here. I also love my husband. He is a strong, kind, and generous man. We are partners as much as we are husband and wife and this is deeply satisfying to me. Although we run our business and I play hostess to the guests each night, it is late when everyone has turned in and it’s just the two of us when I am the happiest. We often stay up until dawn, simply enjoying one another’s company and talking. His companionship means the world to me, just as yours did.

I know I didn’t do a good job of explaining why I left Boston. The truth is, I have always had a yearning in me to see more and do more. When I looked at the other young women and the lives they were settling into, I saw their happiness but I also saw the sameness in what they were doing. I did not feel that was the life for me. This life I have chosen is difficult and trying, but it does make me happy.

The tavern is struggling a little. Our guests come at an influx or else there is a dry spell. Sometimes they barter for their rooms and meals. Although this occasionally does work to our advantage, like many people we also need the coins. When they are not able to pay, we suffer as well.

We hoped to have a child by now and, indeed, I was with child for a short time period. I caught an illness, however, and the doctor thought it traveled to the child I carried. He does think we will go on to have more children. That is my one true hope. I wish to fill our home with laughter and song from those who belong to us.

Please tell Father I send my best. I love you and think of you every day.

Yours,

Permelia

May 26, 1841

Dear Lucy,

I am sorry it has taken me so long to respond to your last letter. We have been ever so busy here at the tavern and inn. More and more people continue to come through and stop and I feel as though I am constantly moving around, tending to others. My back and feet ache at the end of every day but it’s a happy kind of fatigue I feel. We are thriving in our purse and James is delighted at our progress. We hosted a party three nights ago and it continued until dawn. I love dancing so much, as you know, and although my feet were bleeding by the time I went upstairs to our rooms I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy.

We did experience one mishap recently. A month ago, one of our boarders partook in the whiskey a little too strongly. He wandered away from the tavern in the early morning hours and fell into the large hole in the back. We try to warn our guests about these, and most abide, but we assume he must not have been in his right senses. He was not traveling with his family and seemed to be alone in the world. This may have been a blessing in disguise because at least there is no one to mourn him

I am so very happy to learn of your engagement. I would like to attend your wedding but am currently unable to travel since I am now carrying a child. Yes, it is happy news and a good time for both of us. I am certain you will look lovely in your dress and please know I will be thinking of you and all the happiness you deserve.

Love,

Permelia

September 9, 1841

Dear Mother,

As I grow nearer to my birthing I am reminded of the sacrifices you made for your children and I yearn to be closer to you. I have a few trusted women here to help me, but none of them are replacements for my mother. I am more than a little frightened, but I know I will come through the ordeal and, when I do, will be blessed with what James and I have so patiently waited for.

Several new inns have been built here in town but ours remains the most popular. Many guests say it is due to the food. I like to think I have something to do with that. I discovered my talent for baking and cooking upon moving here. Naturally, as I near the end of my condition, we have hired others to perform those duties so I may rest more.