Seven Sisters Collection Read online

  Seven Sisters Collection

  By

  M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2015 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Author’s Note

  The Seven Sisters collection is a work of fiction, but the inspiration for these books came from my regular hauntings of some Mobile, Alabama, landmarks. These included Oakleigh, the Bragg-Mitchell Mansion and the old Magnolia Cemetery. I read all I could about the city, devouring books like Old Mobile by Jay Higgenbotham and so many others, just so I could understand the place and people. Despite seeing and handling artifacts, and hearing amazing stories told by knowledgeable tour guides, I wasn’t satisfied. There was more to tell beyond the clichés involving hothouse belles and grand old families.

  Soon, my goals changed. I didn’t want to just tell an entertaining story; I wanted to give a voice to people who might not otherwise have it. For example, how many Calpurnias were married off without any consultation or care about how they felt? How many dreamed of a different life? And what about all the Muncies? Bright, intelligent, hopeful, a loyal friend—didn’t his story deserve to be told?

  The more I wrote, the more the characters insisted on being represented as authentic, often with a mind of their own. I can honestly say I have never had an experience like this. As a writer, I believe in outlines and order, but I willingly tossed these out the window to allow the characters to move and breathe as they so desired.

  Many people wonder why I ended the first two books the way I did. Others have conjectured that the endings were deliberate, planned—a scheme to trick readers for some nefarious reason. That was never my intention. I’m not that savvy.

  Crazy as it sounds, I listened to the voices of my characters. I ended each story right where they told me to. At the end of Seven Sisters, we see Carrie Jo catching her breath, counting bodies and wondering what the future held. There was the same need at the end of Moonlight Falls on Seven Sisters. The action was about to change, and a pause was needed before moving forward. Perhaps I could have done things differently but it felt right—it still does.

  Maybe I am less of a writer and more of a storyteller. I do appreciate the power of a good pause.

  Thank you, Dear Reader, for caring about Carrie Jo. Thank you for all the love and support. That has been the greatest and happiest surprise.

  Table of Contents

  Seven Sisters

  Moonlight Falls on Seven Sisters

  Shadows Stir at Seven Sisters

  Seven Sisters

  By

  M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2014 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my best friend and sister Karena. Thank you for endless summer days on bicycles, for sharing your blanket and keeping our room tidy. You are the best non-speaking actress I have ever met.

  “Many a night I saw the Pleiades

  Rising thro’ the mellow shade

  Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies

  Tangled in a single braid.”

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  “Locksley Hall”

  1842

  Prologue

  Mobile, AL, 1850

  Her white hand shone like bone in the moonlight. Shivering, she stood perched on the walkway that led to the Delta Queen. To the casual observer, she might appear to be a statue, standing perfectly still, leaning slightly against the shiny wood railing. No, she was not a cold, unmoving statue but a real woman alive and free for the first time.

  Musical notes jostled with one another in the air, and the voices of spirited patrons rolled from the riverboat like waves lapping along the shores of the Mobile River. Above the glittering riverboat hung a clear, dark sky filled with heavy stars that shone with an unusual brilliance. She heard no familiar voice but to her, those stars, the Pleiades, shone their approval like a message from heaven. Her lips turned up in a small smile as she imagined her mother saying, “Run—be free. Be what I can never be!”

  She raised her hand to her lips to calm her heart—it leapt like a calf! She turned her head slightly, her long curls brushing her bare back. Looking down the sandy, moonlit path, she gave a small wave and smiled into the darkness at the friend she left behind. Then she disappeared into the bubbling soiree aboard Mobile’s most celebrated ship.

  Once inside, the young woman was thankful for the music. She was sure that without it, all of Mobile would hear the pounding of her heart. Clutched at her side was a small satin purse, elegantly beaded and embellished with silk ribbons. She slid her hand into the purse and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, running a finger over the cover. The book had changed her forever. Inside were his words, which had opened her closed heart. Like Ali Baba whispering the words that had opened the enchanted door.

  How beautiful and courtly were his words! How completely he had allayed her every fear. She had carefully gathered each letter and bound them in her book. They had given her the courage to forget the darkness that had surrounded her.

  Suddenly, anxiety overwhelmed her. What if he no longer wanted her? What if she had been too late in her reply? Would she now pay for her aloofness? She could never go back! She had done the unthinkable. The die was cast.

  Somewhere aboard the Delta Queen was Captain David Garrett, the gentleman who had liberated her heart. The riverboat would leave Mobile soon. She had seized her chance, a chance at happiness away from the ghosts of Seven Sisters. She would reveal her soul to him, the man who had proven worthy of her love and devotion. His writings had plucked at her courage, creating a crescendo of hope, love and desire that commanded release. It would be fulfilled by her spontaneous act of affection—her willingness to leave behind a world of favor and prominence for a more uncertain one as his bride.

  She moved through the thick wooden doorway, humming along to the waltz that flowed out of the concert hall. A woman with vulgar red lips smiled up at a mustached man who held two glasses overflowing with some sort of dark libation. Callie’s disgust shook her back to her task. She hated hard drink; it made good men evil.

  Her green eyes glittered as she searched the hall for Captain Garrett’s dark, handsome countenance. She had seen him less than a dozen times, but she had sketched his face perfectly in her mind and added details after each visit, like the curl of his hair and the dark fringe of his eyelashes. Always his hair curled around his crisp white collars. His wide, toothy smile and cleft chin made him look like an exotic Russian prince, she imagined. She would recognize those dark blue eyes in a crowd of a hundred men.

  She moved amongst the partiers, touched and jostled by dancers and couples flirting. Such a different world from the ballrooms of the local plantations where elegant ladies prided themselves on navigating the crowd without crushing another debutante’s dress! A few gentlemen tipped their hats to her, but she was largely ignored. Her coral-colored silk gown, his favorite, rustled as she continued her quest.

  Again, those questions screamed like banshees in her mind. What if he no longer wanted her? What if she had been too late in her reply?

  She could never go back to her unhappy life. The dark thing she had witnessed, the many dark things she had seen, made that impossible. Her desperation rising, she asked a short, officious-looking man where the captain was. He silently led her through a myriad of hallways with a slow gait that irritated her. He tossed her a curious look once over his shoulder, and then unceremoniously left her standing in the hall outside a wooden door with a bronze handle.

  She fussed over her barrette and pinched her cheeks for some color, as her mother had taught her to do. She was no hothouse rose like her cousin, but the flush of warmth in her cheeks fla
ttered her thin nose and unusually full lips. It gave her an added sense of attractiveness. She felt confident, beautiful and wanted by this man of honor and gentility.

  She raised her hand to knock, but then changed her mind. Instead, she followed her inner streak of boldness, the same boldness that had led her to this place, to this moment. Smiling to herself, she swung open the door. “David,” she called out softly, laughing joyfully at saying his name aloud for the first time. The intimacy thrilled her.

  No answer came. She stood silent in the small parlor, embarrassed but determined to find him.

  Soft moans and a shimmer of light filtered through an open door. She strained to hear the hushed voices. Frozen momentarily in the shifting light of flickering candlelight and a rising moon, her heart raced to keep up with what her mind already knew.

  “David, David! Oh, yes!”

  As quietly as possible, she delicately pushed the door open wider. Standing perfectly still, she said nothing. She did nothing. The forgotten book slipped from her hand, making an odd slapping sound as the leather cover hit a space of bare wooden floor.

  Half-dressed, his body exposed, his normally perfect coiffure of dark curls unruly and wild, David Garrett stood to face her. Even in the dim light, she could see his blue eyes. How easily they reflected his emotions—a flicker of realization, regret, and then sadness. Had he ever truly loved her? He opened his mouth to offer her his words, a reproach, perhaps an explanation. But she raised her hand in protest, surprising him into silence for a seemingly eternal moment.

  From behind him there was a shuffling of clothes, then a familiar face peeking around his legs, a round cherubic face. Callie’s cousin rose from the small, rumpled bed and stood standing next to the half-dressed captain. Her skin gleamed with sweat, evidence of her extreme betrayal. A blue gown lay piled on the floor, one that Callie recognized as her own. The half-naked girl giggled again, wrapping herself around David. Then she stretched out her hand to Callie, as if inviting her to join them. The scandalous move seemed to bring the captain to his senses; he scolded her loudly for her vulgar gesture and tried to dress himself as graciously as he could with a sense of obvious urgency.

  Lifting her skirts with one hand and pushing him away with the other, Callie ran from the room, leaving the muskiness of the betrayers’ lovemaking and her childish dreams behind. She ran blindly down the long hallway, through the unfamiliar complex of passageways that were now filled almost to capacity. She made her way through the crowd, running when she could.

  She was thankful for the tears that blurred her vision. She didn’t want to see the faces, the witnesses to her great shame. She welcomed the deepening agony, the hurt of the betrayal, the overwhelming sadness. Behind her she heard someone call her name. She never looked back.

  Before she understood what was happening, she felt herself falling, falling into the blackness of the river. Above her, his outstretched arms, a quiet scream, silver stars, welcoming warmth, and then—nothing.

  Chapter 1

  I climbed into my blue Honda, slipped it into neutral and slid silently down the driveway. I hated saying goodbye to the comfortable garage apartment that smelled like fresh paint and new wood; however, I felt an unusual call to leave for once. I had the courage to go. That Zen-like, “I’m starting over” spell comforted me on this unseasonably cool morning as I slid the last box of my belongings into the backseat of the car. The rest, a collection of CDs, memorabilia from a recent trip to the Bahamas and most anything that did not fall into the jeans and t-shirt category, I left behind in a small storage space about a mile away. I had paid for six months in advance but was already putting off the idea of coming back to Charleston.

  I did feel a twinge of guilt as I put the car into gear. I had not even bothered to say goodbye to William, my friend and sort-of boyfriend. He was kind and good and understanding, but I knew that would never last. We were too different in too many ways to describe. Perversely, I liked leaving on a high note, without the nightmares and all the screaming. It felt like a personal triumph. I was being selfish, but I was okay with that. At least for the moment.

  “Once I make up my mind, the die is cast,” I said to no one in particular.

  I muttered, “Well, if I am stubborn, I have had to be.” I already loathed myself for traveling down this predictable mental highway, but what else could I do for the next few hours but drive and think? I hadn’t “gone there” in a while, so perhaps a quick review would be healthy. I rolled my eyes at myself in the rearview mirror. I sounded just like my last shrink. “How can I help you if you won’t share with me, Carrie Jo? Why won’t you let someone in?” Feeling a softness that I rarely experienced, I had pulled back the cover and let the light hit my secret for the first time in a long time.

  * * *

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, but without significant personal discipline, I would have gone nuts—like my mother, a long time ago.” Encouraged by the petite, smiling psychologist, perched in her overlarge leather chair, I continued on, “You see, Dr. O’Neal, I have a problem—I dream about the past. I’m kind of like a human DVR; my dream life is usually not my own. It belongs to whatever memory movie plays the loudest wherever I’m sleeping.”

  Dr. O’Neal had looked at me blankly, unshaken by my confession.

  Okay, the young, pretty doctor has earned ten points for the poker face she’s wearing, I’d thought wryly. Her focused attention encouraged me to ramble on.

  “That’s why I love my garage apartment so much. It is brand spanking new, with no movies, no memories. I sleep, and I dream my own dreams. My ‘problem’ gets even more complicated when I sleep with someone else. I can see their dreams too.”

  Luckily, there haven’t been too many of them, I’d thought, but I hadn’t felt the need to share my lack of a love life with the dainty Dr. O’Neal, new bride and smart career woman. Her fingers had flown across her notebook, her manicured hands busy recording her undoubtedly smart thoughts to form a brilliant pre-diagnosis. I’d discreetly peeked at the wedding photo perched on her mahogany desk. It didn’t take a degree to see she was proud of her groom.

  I hated the silent moments of this confession, so I blathered on, in a hurry to make my point and come to the reason for my visit. That was me: give it to me in black and white, and I’ll do the same for you.

  “You see, Dr. O’Neal, I have this great job offer—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime gig, really. But I hate giving up my apartment. I just don’t know what to expect. That’s why my friend Mia suggested I come see you. And, well, here I am.”

  To her credit, the shrink didn’t zero in on my “problem”; instead, she took a sidestep that I hadn’t anticipated. “What about your current relationships? Didn’t you say you were seeing someone?” Consulting her notebook, she pointed. “Yes, he’s a ‘fantastic’ guy. Don’t you find it odd that you’re worried about leaving your safe apartment but not this ‘fantastic’ guy?”

  I left her office feeling deflated, insecure and even more confused. Why had I mentioned William? Obviously, Dr. Happily Married was going to focus on the sex angle rather than the real problem. When she called a few days later to setup a dream clinic session, it was a moot point. I had already made up my mind. I was leaving, come hell or high water. I had to take a chance away from the safety and security of my little apartment. I had to go where the work was. And although I couldn’t explain it, even to myself, I knew my destiny waited for me in Mobile.

  * * *

  As I zipped onto the highway and left Charleston behind me, a ball of anxiety settled in the pit of my stomach. What was I doing traveling into the unknown? What night terrors would I experience in Mobile? I had to admit this kind of bold, brash move was surprising, even for me. Still, like the proverbial moth to a flame, I drove down the slick highway, drowning out the voice of Cautious Carrie Jo with the hum of my old faithful car. I smiled at myself in the rearview mirror as a sort of encouragement.

  Behind my oversize sunglasses
was a pair of almond-shaped green eyes. I liked my eyes; they reminded me of my father. At least that’s what I figured, since they weren’t anything like my mother’s. I had never met my father. That morning, I had quickly piled my mass of brown, curly hair on top of my head in a messy ponytail bun. A few brown strands whipped around my face like wildcats in the wind as I sang along with Natalie Merchant. I dug in my purse for my favorite coral-colored lipstick. The shade looked pretty and bright against my light olive skin. I smiled at myself again to make sure the lipstick hadn’t smeared on my teeth. I rarely wore lipstick, but somehow I felt like I needed to today. I felt free and happy.

  “Funny how I got here,” I pondered absently, glad to let the mental review of my conversation with Dr. O’Neal fade away. A few letters, a polished phone call from an attorney. It seemed like something I had read or dreamed about, but everything checked out. The contract was signed, and I now had a nice deposit in the bank. Best of all, the contents of an antebellum home waited to be scrutinized, categorized and stored. I would finally put that history degree to good use. No searching frantically for summer work. No more manning small-town Sno-Cone stands while wearing a goofy paper hat. Actually, that had been a fun job. Kids were my weakness and I had met plenty of them while I shoveled shaved ice and flavored syrups into cups.

  With an even bigger smile, I remembered turning in my notice at the funeral home. Working in the records office wasn’t creepy, but I’d felt continually surrounded by sadness. I dozed off in my quiet office during one boring, rainy afternoon and surprisingly had not dreamed a thing. I guess the dead carry no memories. They leave them behind for people like me.

  My cell phone jangled on the seat next to me, and I tapped the ignore button. I was ultra-cautious when it came to driving, at least with the phone. Without looking, I knew it was William, mad and hurt that I had left him without a word. My frustration rose. He knew I was leaving, and I knew he didn’t want me to go. What else was there to talk about?