When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (24 page)

Sure, the other girl was a fine-looking dish, but my first impression led me to believe she didn’t underestimate her gorgeous looks. An aura of unmistakable confidence oozed from every pore in her body. How strange that I’d be attracted to such opposites.

Her neatly styled hair was the color of corn silks. Her eyes the color of emeralds. Her sun-kissed skin glowed, reflecting a healthy diet. Her cheeks were soft like rose petals. But it was her laugh that drew me in. Her lips parted wide, then her eyes twinkled and giggles erupted into soft, fluttering sounds like a huge covey of sea gulls flapping their wings over the ocean. Even when she goaded me with her wise-cracks, she made me laugh. Ah, how good it was to laugh again.

Yet I felt ashamed that I could laugh so freely. Guilt overwhelmed me. Was it wrong for me to have feelings for a stranger? I’d love Zann Pruitt ‘til I drew my last breath. But there was something special about this girl. Something that made me want to live again.

When I reached the old barn, I walked inside. A setting hen fluttered from the rafters, causing me to jump and stumble over a broken cow-stall gate, lying on the ground.

A frightening scenario caused my mouth to dry. I swallowed hard. What if I returned to discover there was no car. No girl. Perhaps she was a mere figment of my imagination. Had the bump on the head caused me to hallucinate? Or had I conjured her up in the same way I brought Zann to my remembrance when I needed her? But if I’d dreamed up this beautiful creature, I did a bang-up good job. I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect apparition—one with the power to bring life back into my body. Not only did I want to live again, but I wanted to love again. I’d been led to believe that for every man and woman there was only one love. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Was it possible for true love to come twice? Zann seemed to believe it. She’d prayed for it to happen. If God answers prayers, then surely Zann’s wishes would get top priority. My pulse raced. What if—?

I reached into the pocket of my overalls and pulled out a yellowed envelope. Carefully unfolding the thin pages, I read the words, which I’d read so many times I could quote them from memory:

“God has many shells beyond the breakers, which will wash ashore with the tide. The next one may not look like the one you lost, but it will be equally beautiful . . .

The tide is beginning to ebb, my darling, and soon I’ll be no more. Don’t mourn for what you’ve lost. God has something wonderful in store. Watch for the high tide. This is my prayer.

May God keep you, ‘til we meet again,

Zann”

I sat down inside the barn on an old milk stool and bawled like a colicky baby. With an uncontrollable compulsion to speak to a precious memory for what I sensed would be the last time, garbled words flowed from my lips. If I failed to say them quickly, I might never say them at all. I needed closure.

“Zann, Zann. My sweet Zann,” I cried. “The day I learned of your death, I felt as if I’d been sucked in by an undertow and pulled beneath the dark, murky waters. With no will to live, I drowned in my loneliness and self-pity. I died with you, my darling. I believed it impossible to ever love again. But moments ago, something strange happened. I saw a girl. I can’t explain it, but when our eyes met, my body short-wired—the way it did the first time I laid eyes on you.”

The memory of Zann sitting across from me in the little school house brought a smile to my lips. I turned to the last page of her letter and read it a final time before wadding it up and tossing it into a rusty barrel nearby. It was time to say goodbye.

“Oh, my precious Zann. I loved you to the—” I stopped, recalling the funny little words, which Mama and I had quoted so often to one another. The peculiar words brought a slight smile to my lips. “Yes . . . Zann, I loved you to the ocean and back.” I swallowed hard, picturing my beautiful, sweet shell pulled away from me by an ebb tide. She wouldn’t be coming back. She was gone. Swept away. I reached in the back pocket of my overalls and pulled out a handkerchief to dry the tears washing my face. If I saw her again, I’d have to go to her, and there was no question in my mind where she’d gone.

I looked toward Heaven and shot my hand upward in a wave. A sudden cool breeze caused my hair to blow. I wanted to believe it was Zann waving back. I tried it once more, but the wind stood still. I could no longer visualize her. I knew she had raven curls and big brown eyes. I knew her smile could melt a glacier. I had the memories, but I couldn’t see her. Could no longer hear her voice. She was gone.

“Rest in peace, my love. God willing, we’ll meet again.” My heart pounded. Why did I say, ‘God willing?’ Surely, He was willing. It was I who’d been unwilling. I’d been wrong about so many things, but I was alive again with a chance to start over.

“Until,” I whispered. “Until we meet again.” Suddenly, something came to my remembrance that I hadn’t thought about in a very long time. Parson Pruitt once told me that God answered our tears. Today, I felt He’d heard my cry and answered my tears. I had so many questions. If only I’d asked the old man . . . I was sure he could’ve answered them. That is, if there really was an old man. I was so confused. After all, I’d suffered a blow to the head. But if I dreamed him up, then where did the cracklings come from? And the blanket? Whether or not he existed, I couldn’t say. Yet, the experience, whether real or imagined had given me a new perspective. I felt different inside. The heaviness in my heart had lifted.

I couldn’t understand why someone like Zann Pruitt had set her sights on me, any more than I could understand why the lovely creature in the Model A would pretend to be stranded in order to get my attention. But she did. She liked me. Even with her sharp wit, I could tell she was as enamored with me as I was with her. The chemistry between us was electrifying. I hadn’t imagined it. We both knew it. I could hardly wait to grab a few boards and get back.

I picked up the broken gate, ripped off a couple of cross boards to put under the wheels and scurried down the road.

Though I can’t explain it, a change had taken place within me. For the first time since Zann died, I had a strange urge to reach out and take hold of my life. But was it too late? How could I possibly recapture the dream of becoming a professor, since I’d lost the scholarships?

Then, as clear as the ocean’s emerald waters, a verse mama often quoted popped in my head: “Nothing is impossible with God.” It was as if my sweet mother was walking beside me, encouraging me to live again. I could hear her saying, “You’re still young, Kiah. You can do anything you set your mind to, my precious lamb.” I began to laugh and cry at the same time. Mama was right. She was always right. I could do it and I would.

My pulse raced as I rounded the curve and saw a shock of yellow hair glistening in the sunlight. I stepped up my pace and sucked in a deep breath of clean, fresh air. Pecan trees were beginning to bud, red clover blanketed the ditch along the edge of the road and the sweet scent of honeysuckles filled my nostrils. Spring had come, signaling new life. What a wonderful season—a magnificent time to be alive.

I squinted my eyes, when the morning sun blinded me. I blinked and blinked again. For a moment, it looked as if the trees and grass had vanished and the whole world had become a blank canvas. Color seemed to disappear. I ran with a board under each arm. I broke out in a sweat. Maybe the heat was getting to me.

Weird, but I felt as if I were running on the beach, the feel of sand squishing between my toes. I could hear the roaring of tidal waves and the distinct call of sea gulls. I rubbed my eyes and the girl in the Model A came into clear view.

Had my mind played a trick on me? Or had God given me a glimpse of what to expect beyond the breakers? I couldn’t say, though I chose to believe the latter.

With the wind to my back, thrusting me onward, I ran, excited to discover what lay ahead.

It was a brand new day, and the tide was coming in.

(Please turn the page for short synopses and sample chapters from other books by this author)

WHEN THE TIDE RUSHES IN

Book 2, Grave Encounters

Eliza Lancaster’s troubles all began the day she fell in love with a vagrant she picked up near the railroad tracks.

When he mysteriously leaves town, she’s confident her mother is responsible for Kiah Grave’s sudden disappearance. Eliza assumes her mother hated him because he was poor. What other reason could she have? But why would he leave without saying goodbye? She was confident he loved her as much as she loved him, yet why did he try so hard to deny it?  Lizzie, as she is affectionately called, tearfully writes her own obituary and leaves home.

Seven years later, filled with bitterness and regrets, Lizzie, as she is affectionately called, returns to Goat Hill to attend her estranged mother’s funeral, determined to unearth the hidden Grave secrets buried long ago.

After picking up a tattered old Bible, Lizzie reads Jeremiah 33:3 and finds the answers to her perplexing questions. Things aren’t always as they seem.

PROLOGUE

Goat Hill, Alabama

Lizzie Lancaster announced her death with the following obituary and had it printed in the morning paper on October 15, 1931. She thought it fitting. Her mama was not at all amused.

HEIR TO THE GLADSTONE PLANTATION SUCCUMBS

Eliza Virginia Lancaster’s spirit departed this earth at the setting of the sun October 14, 1931. She was a mere eighteen years of age with cherished dreams for a long and wonderful future. But alas, the romantic dreams led to her untimely demise. Lizzie, as she was affectionately called, was a Lancaster and Lancasters are forbidden to dream. If you choose to mourn, don’t mourn her death. Mourn her life.

Robert Loch was fired from The Tribune for printing it. Lizzie’s daddy owned the paper, and her mama said Robert should have known better. Eliza cried for days when she found out she caused Mr. Loch to lose his job. An older man, he lived alone—the newspaper was his love. She understood too well, the pain that comes from losing something or someone you love.

Grave Encounters, Book II

CHAPTER 1

Seven Years Later

Eliza Lancaster parked her shiny new Packard behind the hearse. “Congratulations, Mama. You had to go and die to get your way, but you finally got us together.”

Throngs had gathered in the Gladstone Cemetery, but the first face Eliza recognized was Oliver Weinberger’s. She slumped in her seat and groaned when Oliver waved and sprinted toward her. With his long, skinny legs and big, brown doe eyes, he looked like a panic-stricken whitetail deer on the first day of hunting season.

She glanced at the hordes of people staring in her direction and wondered how many had come out of sheer curiosity to gawk at a marked woman. Or at least one presumed to be marked. Privy to the nasty gossip that had continued to circulate through the small town, her pulse raced. Eliza didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they said about her
. Surely, Oliver knows
.
He lives here. Jeepers, has he no pride?

He hunched over with his head slightly leaning toward the open window and panted. “Ah, my sweet. I trust you received my telegram.”

She feigned a smile and nodded. Eliza hadn’t responded to the wire. Now, sensing a flicker of hope in his high-pitched voice, she wished that she had. He seemed to interpret her failure to reply as an affirmative answer to his request.

Eliza had no desire to create the illusion they were a couple and give rise to his fantasies, but neither could she humiliate him by spurning him publicly before a mob of curious spectators. She’d accept his offer to escort her to the memorial service and deal with the consequences later. At the moment, it appeared she was holding up a funeral.

Oliver jerked open the door. “I was beginning to worry, Eliza. We mustn’t tarry. The preacher’s waiting.” He lifted his felt hat and blotted his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry about your mother—she was a grand lady. We were quite close, you know.”

Eliza nodded. “Yes. Mama reminded me often.”

His face lit up. “She told you we were close?”

“No. She reminded me often that she was a grand lady.”

His brow furrowed.

“I’m teasing, Oliver. Yes, she was quite fond of you.” Eliza had known since grade school that Oliver was everything her mama had ever wanted for her. But she wanted much more—or according to one’s viewpoint, perhaps she wanted much less. In either case, Eliza knew what she wanted and Oliver Weinberger was not his name.

“Eliza?” Oliver’s treble voice lifted. “I don’t mean to rush you, love, but we’re late.”

She reached up and placed her lacy-gloved hand into his outstretched palm. Without a word, she shifted her body and stepped out of the car. Her peep-toe heels dug into the soft dirt. She grimaced when sweat from Oliver’s clammy palm penetrated her thin glove.

With his head tilted back, Oliver peered down his long, Roman nose and with his index finger, smoothed his pencil thin mustache. “Ready, my dear?”

Her gaze met his. When a childhood memory invaded her thoughts, she gasped and tried to shove it back where it belonged—in the past. The timing couldn’t be worse. She clinched her lips tightly.
Don’t think about it, Lizzie. Don’t! You know what’ll happen . . . Armadillo face . . . now you’ve done it. Armadillo face. I can’t make it go away.
Don’t start laughing. Not now. Armadillo face.
The name she called Oliver in the sixth grade stuck through the years.
It’s not funny.
She swallowed hard.
Think of something else. Mary had a little lamb, his—

Oliver tugged at his pinstriped waistcoat and crooked his arm. With her composure regained, she looked into his woeful eyes, smiled slightly and slid her arm into his. As they strolled past, the crowd parted, creating a narrow human avenue. Nauseating smells filled the hot, humid Gulf Coast air with the stench of cheap perfume, body odor, and stale tobacco mixed with an overwhelming fragrance of far too many floral sprays. Eliza winced and held her breath.

Oohs and ahhs followed them as Oliver escorted her toward the dark canopy located in the center of the graveyard, where generations of Gladstones lay buried. On a mound behind the freshly dug grave, stood a life-sized statue of a man on a horse—Papa Gid—holding a cotton boll. Etched on the impressive marble slab were the words “Gideon P. Gladstone III, Alabama Cotton King, 1852-1918
.”

As they inched their way toward the tent, Oliver stooped and whispered, “Eliza, I do hope it isn’t inappropriate for me to say at such a somber time—but you look lovely, my dear—even in mourning. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Eliza tried to muster a smile. She whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Step it up, Oliver. This is taking far too long.” When a gust of wind blew a wavy strand of platinum blonde hair into her eyes, she reached up and gently tucked it beneath her gray slouch fedora. Dressed in a Madeleine Vionnet Original, Eliza selected the black silk shantung suit with metallic cloth trimmings exclusively for Aunt Merle’s benefit. Although Eliza preferred her red Chanel halter-neck, which showed off her tiny waist and newly acquired tan, she knew her aunt wouldn’t consider it proper attire for a funeral. Her aunt had already worked herself into a dither over what people were saying. According to Aunt Merle, rumor had it that the Gladstone heiress left home seven years ago after a young hoodlum took advantage of her. Exactly what it meant, no one seemed to know for sure, although there’d been much speculation as the nasty rumors circulated. But Eliza had no intention of satisfying the gossips with any sort of explanation.

Excerpts from Chapter 2

. . . Eliza didn’t dispute the fact that according to the latest census, her birth took place on May 2, 1914. Yet, she didn’t begin to live until eighteen years later—May 4, 1931—the day she and Bonnie went joy-riding in Lizzie’s new Model A and met Kiah Grave on a narrow dirt road near the railroad tracks. Had it really been only seven years? It seemed like such a long, long time ago. But she remembered it well—

“Did he get it? Did he?”

“He did, Lizzie. The scarf flew in his face.” Bonnie squealed. “Isn’t he a dreamboat? You think he jumped off the morning run, or do you reckon he’s waiting to hop the next train?”

“Why don’t I turn the car around and ask him.” Lizzie snickered.

“Are you crazy? You can’t turn around here. If you get out of the ruts, we’re likely to slide in the ditch, and we’ll be in big trouble—Uncle Will warned you not to cross the tracks.”

“So he did.” Lizzie crinkled her nose and grinned.

“Lizzie. I don’t like the expression on your face. I hope you aren’t planning something stupid.”

“Stupid? Of course not.” She clutched the steering wheel tightly and stomped the brake to the floorboard, causing the car to come to a jarring halt.

Bonnie buried her face in her hands, slumped down in the seat and moaned. “Eliza Lancaster, you know your mama will have a conniption fit if she finds out you flirted with a hobo—and you know she’ll find out. You can’t spit in this town without someone reporting it. ”

“All the more reason to do it, dear cuz—let’s give them something to talk about.”

“Lizzie, no. Don’t. It’s not proper. We don’t even know him. He’s a . . . a tramp, for crying out loud. Let’s go. Suppose someone sees us? What if your daddy takes your car away?”

“I’ll cry.” Lizzie chuckled. “Daddy can’t stand to see me cry.” The gears made a loud grinding noise when she jerked the shift into reverse. “Besides, we can’t possibly leave,” she said as the car shot backward. “He has my favorite scarf.”

Bonnie screamed. “Watch out!”

Lizzie’s shiny new Model A Ford, which her daddy had given her for her eighteenth birthday, spun around on the wet clay road, and slammed into the ditch.

Bonnie clasped her hand over her heart. “I knew this would happen. Lizzie, we’re going to be in—” Her eyes widened. “Oh no! He’s running toward us. What are we gonna do?”

“Flirt, silly.” Lizzie pinched her cheeks and fluffed her hair. “How do I look?” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Oh, Bonnie, catch me, I think I’m falling in love.”

“And what’s new?” Bonnie rolled her eyes. “I declare, you’re so dramatic.”

“I mean it this time. Isn’t he dreamy? Take a gander at those arms.”

“I see them. They’re red . . . just like his neck. Lizzie, you can forget him. I can imagine what Aunt Ali would say if you brought
him
to the family picnic.”

Lizzie smiled and batted her lashes when the handsome fellow approached the vehicle.

He propped his bare foot on the running board and bent forward, his head slightly leaning into the window. The hairs on the back of Lizzie’s neck bristled, when she felt his warm breath on her face. Slung over his shoulder was a red bundle and a pair of worn brogans tied to the end of a pole.

“Can I help, ladies?”

Lizzie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and flashed a quick grin. “Why, thank you. I certainly hope so.”

He stepped back and eyed the embedded tires. “Don’t worry, Miss. It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll run up the road and see if I can find something to put under the wheels.” After taking a few steps, he turned around and pulled a scarf from his pocket. His blue eyes twinkled. “I believe this thingamajig belongs to you. Maybe you should tie it next time.”

“Thanks. You can throw your—” She eyed the pole and fumbled over her words.

“Bindle? Is that the word m’lady’s choking on?” His fingers raked through a mass of inky black curls.

Lizzie’s face burned. Yet, in an odd sort of way, she found it quite charming that he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. “I wasn’t choking. I simply didn’t know what to call it.”

“Try clothes.” His square jaw jutted forward. “I gather you don’t know the difference between a vagabond and a banker. We men of distinction pack our morning coats in red flannel when we travel, to keep from lugging around a smelly old cowhide suitcase.”

“No need for such haughtiness. I merely wanted to tell you to toss it on the rumble seat.”

He stiffened. “I suppose you’re accustomed to telling folks what to do, but I’m not in the habit of taking orders.” He shoved his bindle against the fence post and stalked down the road, looking madder than a run-over dog.

Bonnie crinkled her brow. “Lizzie, I can’t figure him. He’s almost rude.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s playing hard to get.”

“But isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

Lizzie gave a short laugh and took a second look at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Well, I think he chose first, but I invented this game.”

Within the half hour, the handsome hobo returned, carrying two four-foot long boards on his shoulder. After making a track in the clay, he said, “If you ladies will kindly step out, I’ll crank ’er up. I think I’ll be able to get it out.”

“You
think
?” Lizzie cocked her head to the side, attempting to look coy. “Do you know how to drive?” It seemed a logical question, since he obviously didn’t own wheels.

His nostrils flared. “I wouldn’t have volunteered if I didn’t know how to operate an automobile Miss, but if you think you can get the car out of the ditch, I’ll not trouble you further.” He threw up his hand and with a smirk, muttered, “Toodle-do, ladies. Have a nice day.”

Lizzie flung the door open and leaped out. “Please! Don’t leave us stranded. I’m sorry.”

He trudged back to the vehicle, slid in and sat on the soft, gray seat covers. The motor revved and the car rocked. Then with a jolt, the Model A made a quick lunge and settled into the well-traveled ruts. Sporting an arrogant grin, he stepped out and strutted like a proud banty rooster. His gaze traveled from the front bumper to the rumble seat as he strode around, admiring the car.

Lizzie whispered, “If only he’d look at me the way he’s eyeballing this piece of metal.”

He gasped. “What a beauty. A real sweet patootie.”

“Why, thank you. I thought you’d never notice. Oh, silly me. You were referring to the car, weren’t you?” Lizzie shrugged when he ignored her. “Where are you headed?”

“Miss, do you have a habit of making everyone’s affairs your own?”

She feigned a pout. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry. I was offering you a ride.”

His blushing face grimaced. He grabbed his bindle stick and mumbled an apology, albeit a weak one. “Thanks. A ride would be swell.” With his head lowered, he added, “If it won’t put you out.” His next words caught her by surprise. “Would you happen to know the whereabouts of the Gladstone Plantation?”

When the handsome stranger hopped up on the running board and plopped down on the rumble seat, goose bumps raced across Lizzie’s arms, causing her to shiver. Cleoda, the maid, called such shivers “a rabbit running over a grave,” which didn’t make a dab of sense. Lizzie knew exactly what caused her to tingle all over, and he looked nothing at all like a furry little creature with long ears.