The Stars that Fell Page 3

  I did miss it. Even after all the sadness, murder and mystery, I missed Seven Sisters.

  “Quite well. We’ve been packed since the doors opened—people love it, Carrie Jo. You and your team did a remarkable job—you really captured the spirit of the house.”

  I must have turned a few shades of red because she quickly added, “You know what I mean. We are a month away from Halloween, and we’re finally having our first ball.” She smiled politely, but Detra Ann was well aware that this subject had been a source of contention between the two of us. When we first met, hosting a ball at Seven Sisters seemed somewhat sacrilegious to me. After all, the ghosts of the past were lingering, unwilling to let go of their lives and their agendas. But that was then—perhaps they’d put all their old bones to rest now. I wanted to believe that, but I knew it wasn’t true. Something was undone. Something wasn’t right. I could feel the supernatural approaching again, like a lone drum beating in the distance. And just as before, it filled me with anxiety.

  Masking my thoughts as well as I could, I smiled at the beautiful, blue-eyed blonde.

  “You know it wouldn’t be right to have our first ball without you and Ashland in attendance. Would you consider coming?”

  “I’ll talk to Ashland. He’s been so busy with the Dauphin Street project I barely see him. I guess the honeymoon is over now.” It was intended as a joke, but it sounded harsh and unhappy.

  Bette chimed in, “Now, don’t you get discouraged. It takes some adjustment being married. I think you’ll find he will come around. He’ll balance things out soon. Ashland has a strong work ethic.”

  Detra Ann chuckled. “He’s all work, that’s for sure. Please let me know if you can come to the ball. I’ll save two tickets for you, just in case. Bette has promised to come—and bring a date.”

  “Wow, Bette. I’m gone for three months and you find Mr. Right.” She chuckled but didn’t offer any more information about her mystery date. I wondered if it was her “Steve McQueen” she’d been so crazy about before. “I will do that, Detra Ann. I know that Seven Sisters is in good hands if you’re there.” I meant it. Like Ashland, Detra Ann loved Mobile and the house. I had no worries that those hallowed grounds would be mistreated.

  My heart hurt—I wanted to go home.

  “We’re offering nightly tours all October, did you hear? Rachel is the best guide—you’d be so proud of her.” I smiled thinking of Rachel Kowalski be-bopping from room to room, explaining to the tourists how we acquired the mantelpieces and where the Augusta Evans book collection came from. I wondered what else she might tell them. “Here’s where Hollis Matthews was murdered by an insane historian…and over here, we found the body of Louis Beaumont.”

  “I am sure I would be. Rachel is very passionate about local history. I am glad she stayed on with you. How is your mother? Recovering okay?”

  Detra Ann frowned and gave an exasperated sigh. “Driving her friends and her nurse crazy. You would hardly know she had surgery; she is on her phone and laptop all the time, still working on behalf of the Historical Society. No way she will be out four more weeks. My guess is she will be back in two, tops. I can’t say I’ll be sad. That means I can move back to my place even sooner.”

  I had heard rumors that she and TD had been “playing house” as Bette called it. I was not judging her, but I was curious to hear how he was doing. “I am sure TD will be glad to have you back home.”

  Her beautiful smile disappeared, and she glanced at Bette reproachfully. “I, uh, TD hasn’t been well. He took a trip up to Montgomery, but I think he’s home now.” She glanced at her watch and promptly changed the subject, “Oh, we better get started.” Detra Ann walked away and left me standing by the open French doors.

  “Bette? Is TD okay? I get the feeling I said something wrong. What just happened?”

  “He left her high and dry.” She froze and pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “All men get a little crazy now and then, but that I didn’t figure. From all accounts, he’s not doing too well. I hear he’s had some sort of breakdown.”

  “Breakdown? What kind of breakdown? Like a mental breakdown? Oh no, this is all my fault.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t take that on yourself. We better head to our seats. My table is right at the back if you need anything.” She half hugged me, and I obediently walked toward my seat at the front. I wanted to fuss over my hair and clothing but refrained. My heart sank at the thought that TD was hurting. I remembered seeing his face in the garden the night we fought Isla. He’d dug the hole like a furious dog, trying to locate the box. We’d found it, but at what cost?

  I sat in the chair, staring at my empty teacup and saucer. Trays of sweets and sandwiches decorated my table, but I didn’t sample any. Focus on the moment, CJ. You can find out more about TD later.

  I scanned the room as Detra Ann called the meeting to order. Thankfully, most of the tables and guests were behind me so I didn’t have to stare at all the faces. Instead, I took in the details of the mansion. This shindig was in one of the front rooms. This particular room had lovely high ceilings, cheerful yellow walls and tons of white molding, decorative columns and a shiny white mantelpiece. A carved marble mantelpiece—in the Federal style, I guessed. The event planner had opted for an intimate setting; there were at least a dozen round tables covered with white linen tablecloths and matching wooden chairs. If I hadn’t been so heartsick about TD, I would have cherished every minute of this experience. The Bragg-Mitchell Mansion wasn’t as fine as Seven Sisters, but it was one of the loveliest antebellum homes I’d seen in Mobile.

  “Now, please make welcome this month’s speaker, Carrie Jo Stuart.” People began to clap, and I clumsily rose from my chair. Why had I worn heels? Had I learned nothing from history? I was a historian, for Pete’s sake.

  Carrie Jo Stuart. I still wasn’t used to hearing my new name, and I could not help but smile at the friendly applause. I thanked Detra Ann and stood behind the podium, clumsily arranging my notes. My throat felt dry as I stared out at the anxious audience. More than anything, I wanted to jump into the details about our most prized acquisitions. The amazing sculpture in the men’s parlor—the delicately carved cherub faces on the mahogany mantelpiece that TD placed in Christine’s room. But I didn’t.

  I decided I would start things a little differently.

  Might as well give them something to talk about.

  Chapter Two

  “Ashland! Are you up there?” I scampered up the stairs to the second floor of our two-story Victorian searching for my husband. According to Ashland, purchasing one of the old homes on Anthony Street was nothing less than miraculous. People loved these homes, and I can’t say that I blamed them. From the smooth white exterior to the black cast-iron details, it was a lovely place. Naturally we had worked our magic on the inside, replacing the horrible windows with double-paned Victorian reproductions. This house—Our Little Home, we called it—was indeed little, but it had some historical importance. It was once home to an inventor and author, Mills Broughton. Still, it just didn’t feel like home yet.

  What did I think? That I would spend my days swanning down the staircase of Seven Sisters, greeting callers in the Blue Room?

  “In here!” Ashland called from one of the guest rooms. The soft blue carpet runner felt luxurious underfoot. I pushed on the half-open door and found him rummaging through the closet. “How did it go?” he asked without looking up from his task.

  “I nailed it—no tripping or stuttering.”

  He gave me a disbelieving look.

  “Okay, I did get tongue-tied once or twice. Honestly, I am fine.” He grinned at me and, as always, I felt my heart do somersaults. He continued to rifle through my carefully stacked closet. I paused to add, “I may have shocked them just a little.” I suppose I needn’t have told them about my life in Savannah, my brief stint in foster care and how much Mobile felt like home.

  “What do you mean? I am sure you were great.” His distracted attitu
de hurt me a little.

  “I mean, I told them that I didn’t come from an old Southern family. I was just Carrie Jo, historian and researcher.”

  “Nobody cares about that, CJ. Just you. If you give people a chance, they might surprise you.” His voice sounded tired, and I could tell he was in one of his quiet, sulky moods. I wasn’t the kind of person to push someone into talking, as I hated that myself, but there were many times in our short history when I wished I knew what he was thinking.

  He finally pulled a suitcase from the closet, which triggered a landslide of boxes and bins down on top of him. Laughing, I helped him pick up the books that tumbled out of a blue plastic tub. “We’ve really got to think about getting a bigger place. Or at least put some things in storage.”

  “Or you could get rid of some of this stuff. I think most of these are full of your old books and papers.”

  “I don’t have all that much, and I need those for my research. Remember I am supposed to be consulting on the Tillman House. These are important for that project. What about you? I had no idea that you were such a pack rat. You have boxes of baseball cards taking up half the closet.” I didn’t mean to complain—and I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t said something first.

  “Me? At least I confine my items to the closet. The whole dining room table has become your research center.” He frowned, tossing the suitcase on the down coverlet of the queen-sized bed.

  Wow, that stung just a tad. His junk didn’t really bother me, but I sensed he was angry about something—something about me. “Okay…well, I will do my best to finish my office and keep things off the kitchen table. Um, I’m going to change my clothes—maybe get a shower.”

  “No need to rush,” he said with a sigh, his hands on his hips. “I have to go to New Orleans for a couple of days. I should be back on Sunday.”

  My shoulders stiffened and my chin jutted out. No way on God’s green earth was I going to ask him where he was going. Now I didn’t really care! “Two days should be enough time for me to get my office in order. Have fun on your trip.”

  “It’s not that kind of trip—it’s mostly for work. I’ve got to see some people. You can tag along if you like.”

  “No thanks. Tagging along isn’t my style, and I have an office to organize.” I strolled out of the room, my hands curled into angry fists intended to keep me from crying.

  “Wait. I’m sorry, Carrie Jo. Come back.” He shoved a tennis racket and a box of miscellaneous items back into the closet and closed the door. “I didn’t mean that crack about your stuff.”

  I nodded and said, “Okay,” leaving the room before he saw the tears in my eyes. It wasn’t just this incident—it was where we were now. Like two unhappy strangers forced to live away from home. I walked away, closing the bedroom door behind me, just to let him know that I wanted to be alone for a little while. I knew whatever had ticked him off was not my office.

  Everything had been fine during our months in Haiti and the Bahamas, and even afterward when we spent some time on the Happy Go Lucky, Ashland’s boat. But those three months were gone, and real life piled in on us. I couldn’t help but think maybe we just weren’t meant to be together. Perhaps we had rushed into things; the supernatural drama of Seven Sisters forced us to move too fast, too soon. I wondered if that could be true—I suspected he did too. We were from two different worlds. His was respectable, full of tradition, and he was from a family of wealth and means. The world I stepped out of had none of those things. Everything I’d ever had, I had to work hard for, harder than my peers did.

  Despite my momentary anger, divorce wasn’t a consideration—not for me. I loved Ashland, and I would do my best to make it work, but no way did I plan to be a pushover. Tag along? What was he thinking?

  Let him go to New Orleans—I could use the time to myself anyway. I stepped into my closet and looked for something to wear. I reached for a pair of old jeans and a soft grey V-neck t-shirt, then went to turn on the shower. As I chewed my fingernail nervously, I heard my phone whistle in my purse. I walked to the dresser and dug it out. It was a text from Ashland.

  I’m a jerk.

  Walking back into the bathroom, I turned on the shower and stared at the phone. I tapped in my response. What do you want me to say? That you’re not?

  That would be nice.

  Sorry. I’m all out of nice.

  I threw the phone on the bed, stripped off my clothing and stepped into the warm water. It felt good to be mean for a moment. I typically wasn’t very good at mean, but I found married life made me better at it. Not that Ashland wasn’t wonderful, thoughtful and completely patient, but living with someone was a new thing for me. I barely had roommates in college because I so treasured my privacy.

  When he didn’t text me back after a minute or two, guilt washed over me. Maybe this was a good time to test out that old adage that making up was much more fun than breaking up. I wondered how he felt about taking an afternoon shower with me. Before I could call out to him and ask him to join me, I heard the front door slam closed. Oh well, there goes that idea.

  I rubbed my body down with a thick, soft towel and shimmied into my panties and blue jeans. I pulled on the t-shirt and tucked it into my jeans. I wrapped my waist with a luxurious black leather belt and opted for some black sandals. I pulled my damp hair on top of my head so I could focus on putting on makeup without fighting my wayward wet curls. I laughed when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked, as they sometimes say in Mobile, like a “hot mess.” Nothing like Calpurnia and her carefully coiled braids. How times had changed!

  “I miss you Calpurnia. Muncie—Janjak, I miss you so much! I hope you’re happy where you are,” I said to the air around me. I didn’t expect to hear anything, and I didn’t, but I sensed they were with me still. That both comforted and troubled me. Why weren’t they at rest now? For the second time that day, I felt that nagging feeling, like I’d left the water running or the oven on. Something missing, something forgotten—something disturbing.

  Putting down the mascara wand for a moment, I closed my eyes. What is wrong? I listened to my heart, hoping it would give me a clue, but I heard nothing but the birds chirping outside my spacious bathroom window.

  Talking to the air around me I said, “You know, if you’re unhappy, all you have to do is tell me. But please—no scary stuff.” My phone rang loudly beside me, and I jumped up and out of my vanity chair. “Oh my gosh! You guys have a sense of humor, don’t you?” I stared at the phone and picked it up. When I read the screen, my jaw nearly hit the floor. The call was from Terrence Dale!

  “Hi, this is Carrie Jo.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I can hear you. How are you, TD?”

  “Fine. I need to talk to you—face to face. Can I come by and see you? Or maybe you could come to my place tomorrow? Around four? I should be home by then.”

  “Sure, I can do that. I’ll come to you. Are you still over off Clairborne Street?” I smiled into the phone. I was happy to hear from him.

  “Yes, on the corner. I think you’ve been here once before to pick up something.”

  “That’s right. I’ll be there. Would you like me to bring Ashland too?” Reuniting the friends would be a dream come true.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like it to be the two of us.” He didn’t offer much explanation, but I chalked it up to male pride. Southern male pride at that. Whatever he wanted to talk about, he didn’t want Ashland to know about it.

  “I’ll see you at four tomorrow.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “Happy to hear from you.”

  TD hung up the phone, and I walked to the big window that overlooked the backyard. The garden was in a sorry state. The gardenia was overgrown and wilting in the heat, and riotous weeds overran the walkway stones. I couldn’t help but think about the Moonlight Garden and how proud TD had been when he finished that project. It had been a thing of beauty—until the three of us tore it up diggi
ng for lost treasure.

  I held the phone in my hand and pulled up Ashland’s name from my contact list but then changed my mind. Why should I tell him about the phone call? He wasn’t in an all-fired hurry to tell me who he would see this weekend. Besides, this was just two friends meeting to talk. What was the harm in that?

  I felt guilty, even though I had done nothing wrong. Did I really want to start keeping secrets from the man I loved? I walked down the stairs, shocked to see that the front door stood wide open. Crunchy fall leaves had blown in and were strewn down the hall. Piles of them were heaped on the hallway floor as if someone had raked them into a tidy piles. I didn’t remember it being so breezy out.

  “Ashland?” I stepped out on the porch, past the cheery pumpkins and potted mums. It was only two o’clock, but it was getting cloudy and dark. I could smell the rain on the wind. Looking up and down the sidewalk, I didn’t see a soul. Ashland’s truck was gone. I walked back inside and called again. Nobody answered. I locked the door and pulled on the knob. I’d have to deal with these leaves but right now, I just wanted to think. I pushed on the door again—now it was closed tight, without even a draft of air around it. I flipped on a light and leaned my back against the door. I coached myself, “Alright, don’t be a baby. He probably didn’t close the door properly. There’s no one here.”

  Just to be sure I wasn’t lying to myself, I walked through the house. Like a teenage girl, I opened every closet just to make sure I was alone. When I had satisfied my overactive imagination, I turned on the radio to a local jazz station. It was too early for wine, but I did help myself to a glass of the peach iced tea Doreen had made us earlier. I had never had a housekeeper before, and the idea had made me uncomfortable at first. But Ashland assured me that he paid Doreen and the rest of his staff well.