The Splendour Falls (13 page)

‘She ought to capitalize on it.' Shawn's eyes lit up with enthusiasm and infectious good humour, thawing some of the chill that his suggestion had put around my heart. ‘A historic place like this, a ghost might draw tourists. Look at all those ghost-hunter shows on TV. Maybe one would come and do an episode about the Hill.'

Clara rolled her eyes. ‘Lord. That would rouse the Colonel, and that's a fact.'

‘Who
is
the Colonel?' I asked. Paula had made a similar crack last night, something about the Colonel rolling in his grave.

‘Colonel Davis,' said Shawn, relishing my curiosity, like a storyteller with a new audience. ‘That's who
supposedly
haunts the house.'

‘That's enough of that,' Clara said with finality. ‘You don't believe that nonsense and neither do I. Now get off to school.'

Her practical, maternal tone set the morning back on a normal course and returned me to my metaphorical feet. Of course ghosts were nonsense. Of course this place was spurring my imagination. That didn't have to mean that I was losing my ability to tell fantasy from reality.

Addie downed the rest of her juice, rose from her chair and grabbed her backpack, all in the same motion. ‘Let's get going, Shawn. I have a review quiz first period.'

She was out the door with scarcely a ‘Bye, Mom' over her shoulder. Shawn stood, but didn't hurry off. ‘So,' he asked, holding my chair as I rose too, ‘what are you going to do on your first day in scenic Alabama?'

‘I'm not sure yet,' I answered. ‘As little as possible, I think.' Clara had her back to us as she rinsed the dishes, but I suspected she was paying attention to the conversation. Possibly Shawn thought the same thing, because he moved towards the back door, gesturing with a jerk of his head for me to follow him out.

On the porch, Gigi watched us from her crate, tilting her head curiously. ‘I get out of school early today and tomorrow,' Shawn said. ‘I could show you around the town, or whatever you wanted.'

He stood just on the edge of my personal space, smiling a Tom Sawyer sort of smile, the kind that could get him into, or out of, all sorts of trouble. I had no difficulty imagining that a smile like that could be Becky Thatcher's downfall.

In a way, it was the strength of that pull that made
me hesitate. Liking Shawn was very easy, and it was against my nature to do anything the easy way.

‘I'll think about it,' I said, not entirely shutting him down. ‘If I feel like getting dressed.'

His grin widened. ‘Don't bother on my account.' He managed to make me blush. Out in the truck,Addie leaned on the horn, and Shawn hurried to join her, letting the screen door bang behind him. The effect of his smile lingered behind him, like the Cheshire cat's slowly disappearing grin.

I let Gigi out of her crate, thinking, strangely enough, about picket fences. Believe it or not, there's a ballet
Tom Sawyer
. It's by a Russian, so I wouldn't use it to write a book report. But my point is that Tom, with his Southern charm and boyish grin, was still a trickster. Maybe I needed to remember that.

Shawn seemed straightforward, but his interest was … intense. I'm reasonably attractive, but Shawn was obviously the golden boy around here. Was I a novelty – score with the new girl? And why did he and the Teen Town Council welcome my arrival, while Addie seemed to view it as a personal affront?

Then there was Rhys. I was certainly attracted, but he had no trouble irritating me, too. And what was he working on in the woods? He'd made it sound more than recreational. Or had that been just to tease me about sleeping in?

Two men of mystery. Three if you counted my dad.

I sighed and pulled the scrunchie out of my tangled hair. As if I had any business even thinking about guys when there were big, important things to worry about,
like what I was going to do with the rest of my life, and how I was going to keep from going crazy while stuck here.

Crazi
er,
I mean.

Because the thing that shook me up when Shawn mentioned ghosts wasn't the idea that the house was haunted. It was that, just for a second, I hoped it was. If I was grasping at the supernatural for a lifeline where my sanity was concerned, I was a lot farther gone than I had thought.

B
ack in the kitchen, I asked Clara how I could learn more about the Davis family history. Thinking about sanity made me think of John, and of what he'd said the night before. While I was here, maybe I
should
find out more about my dad and my family. And the best place to start anything was at the beginning.

Accepting the plates I brought from the table, Clara said absently, ‘You could ask your cousin Paula. She'll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.'

I went back for the juice glasses and Paula's mug. ‘I
was thinking more about an unbiased source. Like a book or something.'

Clara chuckled. ‘I don't expect you'd find anything unbiased here in the house. You could take the car up to Selma, I suppose.'

‘I don't have a driver's licence.' I'd never needed one in the city, and I'd been too busy dancing to learn for the fun of it.

‘Well, I'll be happy to take you when I go in for groceries. Or you could ask Rhys to drive you, when he comes back from his trekking.'

With a dish towel, I began drying the glasses she set on the drain board. I was hardly the domestic type, but pitching in seemed natural in Clara's homey kitchen. ‘So, seriously. Is the guy just a nature nut or what?'

‘Seriously,' she echoed, handing me another glass, her brows arched, ‘I don't know. It's none of my business. He said something about rock collecting, but I think he was joking. The boy's well past the age for earning Scouting badges.'

‘I guess.' I remembered him loading my luggage in the car, and how scratched up his hands were. He was definitely doing
something
out in the brush.

‘Anyway,' said Clara as she pulled the stopper and let the sink drain. ‘There are some books in the Colonel's study you could start with.'

I stared at her, the towel dangling from my fingers. ‘The Colonel's study? The colonel who's supposed to haunt the house?'

With an impatient sound, she took the dishrag and dried her hands. ‘Lord, don't you start. Colonel Davis
has been dead for a hundred and thirty-odd years. Lots of people have used that room since. Some men cast long shadows, that's all.'

But I noticed she hadn't exactly denied the haunting part.

I didn't ask for permission to bring Gigi upstairs. Paula had only said she couldn't sleep with me, not that she couldn't come up at all.

Gigi pranced beside me, tags jingling, while I tried to remember Paula's quickly rattled-off orientation to the house. The landing made a U around the stairwell. To the front of the house was a suite that she planned to divide into two bedrooms. To one side was my room, and opposite me, the other guest rooms. I'd already found the French doors to the balcony this morning. Near them, down the same short hallway leading back from the landing, was the study.

At the panelled wood door, I paused, my hand on the knob. Gigi looked up at me, cocking her head in a question.

‘It's a test,' I said. ‘If I'm crazy, then the power of suggestion will make me see something when I open this door. If there's nothing there, then I am still in control of my senses.'

Unless there really was such a thing as ghosts, in which case, my test proved nothing either way.

Ghosts, Sylvie? Really?

No, not really. But it would explain a lot.

‘I could stand here all day at this rate.' And sooner or later someone was going to come by and wonder why I was standing with my face to the door, talking to myself.

Decisively, I turned the knob. The heavy oak swung easily on well-oiled hinges. It stirred the hair that escaped my ponytail, tickling my cheek, but no other sensation came with it. I edged forward and peered in, quickly scanning the room, and found it empty of ghosts or any other apparitions.

The breath I held ran out in relief, and I pried my fingers off the brass doorknob. ‘See?' I told Gigi. ‘Nothing there. And nothing here.' I tapped my forehead.

She sniffed the air and went in, stiff-legged with curiosity. I followed, distracted for a moment by the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls, filled with clothand leather-bound books. Dust motes danced in the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. Heavier drapes framed the windows, faded in streaks, darker in the folds.

It smelled like old paper and furniture polish. The flat surfaces were dust-free, and there were no cobwebs in the corners, though the paint on the ceiling cornices was yellowed with age. All but the edges of the wood floor were covered by a worn Oriental carpet, and a wingback chair and ottoman sat beside the fireplace.

Strangely, I couldn't picture myself curling up to read there. Despite the books and the hearth and the embroidered cushions placed in the chair, this was not an inviting spot.

Gigi seemed to agree with me. She walked in circles, nose to the ground, but didn't look inclined to sit and linger.

Maybe it was the massive desk that dominated the room. The sides were carved simply, the top inlaid with a Greek-key pattern – a beautiful piece of furniture that somehow managed to be unappealing at the same time. Everything about it said it wouldn't be budged. And judging by the pattern of wear on the carpet, it hadn't been moved in a long time. Maybe ever.

I made myself sit in the desk chair. The arms were teak, darker where my hands rested, and the wood creaked softly as I lowered myself into it. The seat and back were leather, but with minimal padding. Uncompromising and uncomfortable, like the man who had sat there.

Come on, Sylvie. Get a grip. How would you know that?

Maybe because the Colonel's stamp was all over the room. He didn't have to haunt in a traditional, chain-rattling sense. Across from the desk was a glass-front case full of antique military regalia: a pair of pistols with ivory handles, a belt buckle and collection of brass buttons, and a big-brimmed cavalry hat with gold cord. A folded flag. Needless to say, it was
not
the Stars and Stripes.

Defiantly, I moved a brass inkwell to the left side of the felt blotter. Take that, Colonel Davis, if you are still hanging around.

Pulling open drawers, I rummaged for treasures of a less military nature, something that would tell me more about my ancestor. Any ancestor. The only
antiques I found were a roll of twenty-nine-cent stamps and a telephone book from 1986.

I sighed. ‘Whatever you do here, Colonel, it isn't keeping up with correspondence.'

I pushed myself out of the chair and went to the case of memorabilia, taking it in, though not really studying it in detail. Was this what Dad had wanted to leave behind? This glorification of a past that didn't really bear up to scrutiny?

My gaze fell on the wall shelf next to the case. That was sensible filing – the dusty history of the Davises, shelved beside the relics of one man's glorious past. I pulled a book free. Cloth-bound, except for the worn leather on the spine. The pages were unevenly trimmed, so they didn't flip smoothly as I thumbed through the thin volume. The type was old-fashioned, and I checked the publisher and date on the copyright page: University of Alabama Press, 1935.

The Davis Family in Alabama.
By William S. Davis, Esq.

Not exactly what I'd meant by unbiased. But Clara
had
warned me.

I poked around and found a few more old books:
Alabama and the War Between the States, Antebellum Houses,
and
Southern Gardens.
All from the last century, all from Southern publishers. Most with the Confederate flag featured prominently on the cover. I guessed the Colonel didn't like any dissenting opinions in his study.

The chair creaked, a distinctive sound, the unmistakable protest of wood. My heart thudded so hard I was surprised it didn't bang against the book I clutched to my chest. When I spun around, I expected to see the dog getting into trouble.

‘Gigi?'

I found her by her tiny, electric-motor growl. She'd been beside me already, but now she rose, her neck fluff standing straight up as she stared at the chair behind the desk, empty, yet sighing under an invisible weight.

A
cold wash of panic froze me in place. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen. What was the next step in madness? Would I see monsters? Would I snap, start raving about implants in my head and men from Mars?

But nothing happened. I finally had to let out one lungful of air to take another, or I'd pass out. The decision to breathe spurred me past my paralysis, and I scooped up Gigi and fled the study, closing the door firmly behind me.

As if I could close the door on my own broken mind.

I headed for my room, thoughts bouncing around my head like rubber balls, blood zinging through my veins, senses on full alert. Except for the complete inability to focus my thoughts, being crazy felt a lot like the rush of dancing onstage.