Whispers from the Past (16 page)

The caption reminded
Teen Trash
readers that the guy in the photo had also been Gabrielle’s escort on the Homecoming Court. The article ended with a question in large, bold print: “Has Gabrielle Stone found her new love?”

“Are you mad?” Gabrielle asked.

I shrugged, wondering how I should react. Anger? Irritation?

But really, all I felt was nothing.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

A B
ARE
W
EEK

I returned home on Wednesday from the afternoon shift, restless and wishing for something to do.

There was no need to spend more time with the newspaper articles and wills that I’d copied at the Archives. I had gleaned all of the secrets those materials could share about the fates of my loved ones. Nor did I wish to look again at court records. I’d spent the past week reviewing all such documents I could find on the web, focusing my attention on the cases against masters for creating poor conditions. I had learned much from studying the complaints of indentured servants in both Pennsylvania and North Carolina. Now I knew that it would have been difficult but possible to make a petition. Had I run away from the Pratts, instead of moving to this world, I might have been able to transfer the contract and clear my name.

It was time to work on something else.

I was caught up on my household chores. There were soups aplenty in the freezer and fresh bread on the counter. The laundry was done and the apartment was clean.

That left my work for weddings. I pulled out another box of invitations and the box of special pens, and bent to my writing. I was well ahead of the promised dates. Delivering early could not be a bad reputation to gain.

It was most gratifying—the amount of income I was able to earn was certainly enough to allow me to live simply at Marissa’s without worry.

The stack of handwritten envelopes grew steadily. When the pain in my neck was too much to be denied, I noted the time. Past nine. Marissa hadn’t appeared yet. Perhaps she would not return tonight. This had become a habit with her new beau.

I might look at the other pages of information that I had copied from my visit to the Archives. I still had many friends whose lives had been lost to history.

The newspaper printout from the
Raleigh Register
sat on top. I smoothed the sheet and concentrated on the small bits of information it might contain.

I read the article written about the storm with interest.

An Hurricane.

On Sunday the 15th inst. about noon a terrible tempest crossed the road leading from Granville Courthouse to this city, nearly at right angles. It was a hundred yards in breadth and extended as far East and West as can be traced. Its violence can only be imagined from its effects, which have been truly dreadful…

An Hurricane
—I understood that term. In Mark’s world, it would mean a tornado.

The date, however, concerned me.
Sunday the 15th inst
. The fifteenth of this month—May—was on a Sunday?

That could not be correct.

I had looked up the day. May fifteenth occurred on a

Wednesday. Baking day.

Hastily, I pulled up a calendar of 1805 on the internet. Indeed, May 15 was a Wednesday.

May 5 was a Sunday.

Unease gripped me. The article had an error. But what was it? The weekday or the date?

If I pondered it logically, the mistake must be in the date. It was far more likely that the paper had changed 5 to 15 than they had missed the day of the week.

This was not a happy development.

On a Wednesday, the villagers would have been going about their work, each at their own farms or businesses. Many would have been outside and able to sound the alarm.

But on Sunday? Everyone in the village would have been inside the meetinghouse. No one would have been outside to see the storm sweep unexpectedly across the sky, especially at noon.

They would have been nearing the end of the worship service. There would be no safe place in a small wooden building in the midst of an open field. Even if the villagers had been able to flee the storm—even if they knew
how
to flee the storm—Dorcas would never have been able to escape the storm’s wrath on a crippled leg.

The problem with the date filled me with fear for her sake. I had thought to write to her with instructions she could use to save herself by making her way to the cave behind the falls. The information would have worked well on a baking day. A Sunday could not be so easily arranged.

I shared a part of the blame in her injury. I had to do something.

No
. Anything I tried would alter history.

Yet, with Dorcas, I had already altered history. If it hadn’t been for my appearance on that fateful day in 1800, she would be dancing at parties and entertaining suitors. There would be a long line of men interested in her for a wife. She might have made a love match.

Might a simple warning suffice? Perhaps I could determine what I would do in such a circumstance and muse aloud in my next letter. Would that not be
repairing
history?

No, I knew that I must stop thinking such things. Dorcas might misunderstand—or worse, wonder if I had become a lunatic who should be avoided.

It would not be right for me to step in.

On Thursday morning, Benita entered Lucy’s at the end of the breakfast shift and ordered a cinnamon roll with tea. Once seated, she motioned me over. “Do you get off soon?”

“In a few minutes.”

“May I take you home?”

She had come to discuss Mark. I did not care to do so. “That is kind but unnecessary. I have my bike.”

“Your bike will fit in my car. I’ll wait.”

To refuse further would have been rude.

Distressed and working hard not to show it, I rode quietly on the seat beside her as she drove me home. Benita chattered on happily about a concert she would be playing in California two days hence.

As I had anticipated, when we arrived, she followed me up to the apartment and watched as I stowed my bike in the storage closet.

“You haven’t asked why I’m here,” she said from behind me.

“I assume that you wish to speak about Mark.”

“Yes. He misses you. We all do.”

She spoke sincerely. It was a lovely sentiment and made me unbearably sad. “Thank you.”

“Don’t you want to know how he’s doing?”

“I live with his sister.” I glanced at her over my shoulder. “I am sure she would inform me if something were wrong.”

“Of course.” She looked out across the grounds of the complex, her brow creased. “He won’t tell us why you broke up.”

“Nor will I.”

“Yeah, I understand. It’s just that…” She leaned against the railing and eyed me thoughtfully. “I didn’t really know Mark until this year. But even as a freshman, I’d watch him sometimes, because he puzzled me. He hung out with Alexis and her friends, but always on the fringe. Almost like he was a spectator on their relationship. It didn’t make sense to me, because she could’ve had any of the popular guys at the school and she chose Mark.”

I ought to ask Benita to stop. I should not listen to these stories about him, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know.

“Then he came back this fall, minus Alexis, and before I knew what was happening, Gabrielle pulled the three of us into her world. I was skeptical about Mark but…wow. He is way better than Alexis McChord deserved, and now I know why. It isn’t only because he’s nice and cute.” She stepped away from the railing and crossed to me, reaching out to clasp my hands with hers. “You’re the reason, Susanna. You draw out the best parts of him.”

I looked away. “Perhaps that was true at one time. Yet for my sake, he has stopped seeking his best future.”

“It’s possible to be good
and
be together.”

“It won’t be for us.” I gave her a pained smile. “Tell me. Would you give up your music for Jesse?”

Benita sucked in a shaky breath. “I
can’t
give up music.”

“Indeed.” I closed the storage closet and stepped to the door to the apartment, hoping this conversation had come to an end.

“Maybe you’re his music.”

The words burned inside me. How I longed for that to be true. But if it was, then it would also be true after he’d completed his education. I shook the thought aside. “Benita, please.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “Susanna, there’s something going on that you need to know about.”

Her tone sent a curl of anxiety through me. “Yes?”

“There’s a story floating around the internet claiming that Mark is dating Gabrielle.”

Mark dating Gabrielle—a bare week after his heart had been mine? I couldn’t imagine words that would have hurt me worse. Had I not been holding onto the door, I would’ve staggered. “Is the story true?”

“Not yet. They’re just friends. For now.”

I turned to face her. My pain at this news had to be evident. I had relinquished my claim to him—and that he might turn to Gabrielle in his need did not shock me. But the speed was stunning. “Do you think they might become this story?”

“That’s why I wanted to warn you. I like both of them. I’d like to see them happy. But I like you too, and Mark is still dazed.” She gave me a pleading look. “We’re not good friends. I know that. But isn’t there some way to work this out?”

I shook my head. “Love alone cannot sustain two people as different as Mark and I.”

“You’re talking to someone who couldn’t be more different from her boyfriend if she tried.” She caught me in a quick hug. Her shirt was as smooth as silk under my cheek and smelled of lemon. “I’m so sorry, Susanna. We really did love having you around.” Then she backed away, dabbed at her eyes, and ran down the concrete steps to the parking lot.

I entered the apartment, feeling much older than when I had left.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

T
HE
P
OINT OF
S
TUPIDITY

I biked the American Tobacco Trail on Thursday. It gave me variety.

Quiet moments invariably led back to Susanna. I hated being apart from her, but after a week, I didn’t feel like punching things anymore. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t help hoping that it was all a big mistake, that she would soon realize we needed to be together.

Why couldn’t I accept that, as much as I wanted her back, she didn’t want me?

There had been no texts, no calls, no emails, no sightings. Given how much we’d meant to each other, given how much my family saw of her, she was doing an amazing job of staying away from me.

After getting home, I took a quick shower and changed. A glance at my phone showed two texts had come in, one from Dad and one from Benita. Both messages said the same thing.
Call me
.

My father picked up on the first ring. “Do you have anything scheduled for this weekend, son?”

“No.”

“Want to head over to the mountains and hit a few trails?”

Really? Did he think I would turn that down? “Sounds great, Dad. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. I went ahead and booked a room in Asheville, just in case.”

He was taking the day off on Friday. It had been a long time since he’d done anything like that. The timing could not be coincidental. “Is this a pity thing?”

“Yes.”

I could respect that. “It’s likely to work.”

“Good. Fill up your truck. We’ll leave by seven.”

“Okay. Later.” There were some great trails within an hour’s drive of Asheville. The problem would be picking which ones we wanted to tackle. Good problem to have.

I dialed Benita next. “Hey,” I said when she answered.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mark, but I didn’t know who else to call.” Her voice sounded muffled. Weepy. “I know this is a huge favor, but can you drive me to the airport?”

“Sure, I can take you. Right now?”

“Yes, please.”

This was strange, but I’d likely hear the reasons all the way to RDU. I grabbed my keys. “I’m heading out the door.”

She was waiting outside her house with a large piece of luggage and her cello case. I loaded them into the back and helped her in.

She sat beside me, rigid on the seat, lips pressed together so hard, I was afraid they might split.

This wasn’t like Benita. She usually told us everything on her mind without prompting. “What’s wrong?”

“My parents want me to dump Jesse.”

“Why?”

“Because he ‘distracts’ me.” She snorted. “What sense does it make to break up while everything is good?”

I was probably not the best person to talk to about dumping someone in the middle of an amazing relationship. “What can they do about it?”

“Not much. I told them that, if I broke up with Jesse, I’d be too distraught to practice for months. They don’t want to risk that.” She lurched across the cab of the truck and gripped my arm. Her hand was really strong. “Thanks for picking me up on such short notice. I didn’t even want to be in the same car with them.”

I nodded.

She gave me a light squeeze and then relaxed into her seat. “I got into the School of the Arts.”

There was a long pause while I thought through what she’d said. “Hey, congratulations.” I smiled. “So Jesse doesn’t distract you all
that
much.”