“I . . . I don’t know if I have enough.” Pa hadn’t sent money with his last letter, and with the expense of her new Charleston wardrobe, her savings had dwindled to the five dollars tucked beneath her underthings in the dresser. She had no idea how much a train ticket would cost. Pa had arranged all that last time.
“I can give you the money to get home. And back again, too, once things are settled.”
Back again.
Deirdre pulled away from Esme’s clinging hands and took the carpetbag from beneath her bed. She packed the grimoire first, then began filling the valise with her clothes.
“You are planning on returning, aren’t you?”
She pressed her lips together and turned away from the pleading tone in Esme’s voice. “I’m not sure. Pa’s getting old. He won’t be able to work much longer. And Robbie’s waiting for me . . . we’re supposed to have a harvest wedding.”
Esme burst into sudden, dramatic tears. “Deirdre, you can’t let this tear us apart.”
A shard of anger broke off in Deirdre and settled in her belly, hardening her. “That’s a mighty selfish thing to say, Esme. Given the circumstances.”
Esme rushed to her side, grabbed her by the arm, and tried to turn her. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I shouldn’t have said that. Just promise me you’ll come back.”
Deirdre whirled on her. “For what? I love you, too, Esme, but this will never work. We’ve always been on borrowed time. We don’t live in a world where we can be together. It’s impossible. Can’t you see that?”
Esme’s tears began in earnest then. She sat at the foot of Deirdre’s bed, clad only in her bloomers and stockings, and buried her face in her hands. “I could come with you, couldn’t I?”
Deirdre tried to imagine Esme in Tin Mountain, with her city ways. Esme might think it a novel thing, for a few days. Until the boredom set in, and the resentment began to fester. She thought of how lonely Hannah Bledsoe was in that big house at the end of Main Street—shunned by the other women because of her money and fancy clothes. An orchid in a field full of cow parsley. Women like Esme and Hannah were always bending to every fickle wind. Too soft, too tender. The Werners were hard, like cedar and pine—solid and evergreen. Mountain people. No. It was time to end things. What she’d had with Esme was a shining seduction. A feverish fantasy, gone on too long.
“You can’t come with me, Esme. You’d hate Tin Mountain. You belong with Lionel, in a big house surrounded by fancy things. After you’re married, I’ll come visit you, I promise.”
“It’s that easy for you to leave, then?” Esme cried, her face red and angry as she stood to face Deirdre. “You can’t wait to get back to your blessed Robbie and that sad little one-horse town. Well, let me tell you something, Deirdre. I’ve seen visions in a dream. I’ve seen the far-off years and the loneliness they hold for you. You’ll rue the mistakes you’ve made and the day you left the one who truly loves you.”
Deirdre’s skin prickled. The way Esme spoke made her words sound almost like prophecy. Like a curse. “Are you cursin’ me and speaking death over my head, Esme Buchanan?”
“No, Deirdre. You’ve already cursed yourself. Now, if you mean to leave, don’t linger on. Just go.”
Deirdre wasn’t a thief, but she was desperate. She tapped gently on Miss Munro’s office door. When she didn’t hear the headmistress’s usual crisp greeting, she nudged the door open with her toe. Just as Deirdre had hoped, she was still out on her Friday errands.
Deirdre shut the door softly behind her. She’d heard talk from the other girls that Miss Munro kept a stash of money in her desk. Though it pained her to do so, she went through every drawer, quickly rifling through the contents. Finally, in the second drawer from the bottom, she found a leather pouch. It was so heavy the strain of lifting it taxed her wrist. She opened it and found it full of silver dollars. She counted out ten of them—that would surely be more than enough to get her back to Tin Mountain on a second-class railcar. She secreted the money in her dress pocket, then shoved the pouch back into the drawer and closed it.
Luckily, with the impending storm, there wasn’t a soul to see her go out the front door and down the walk. When she reached the gate, she turned to look at Miss Munro’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Character one last time. She’d learned plenty during her time at Miss Munro’s—how to appreciate works of philosophy and poetry by Ovid and Homer. She even had enough Latin now to pray properly with her dying mother. But even with her improved knowledge and manners, she’d never belonged here, among the pampered, indolent girls who’d grown up at the end of long oak alleys with servants to attend their every need.
They’d reminded her she didn’t belong, nearly every day.
Esme came to the dormer window in their room, watching her like a half-lit haint. Deirdre lifted her hand. Esme stared at her for a long moment, then the curtain fell back into place.
It was all for the best, her leaving. For both of them. Deirdre squared her shoulders, took a deep breath of the salty, rain-laden air, and walked away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
GRACELYNN
1931
The line of trucks threads up the mountain, roaring in an angry rumble. They’re led by the sheriff’s patrol car, a flashing red light on its roof.
“What d’you think’s happened?” Abby asks.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” I lie. If what Bellflower told me in that vision is true, Harlan Northrup is dead and Abby’s about to find out her wedding’s been called off in the worst way possible.
The patrol car whips up the drive, spraying gravel. Aunt Val crawls out of the back seat. Caro tumbles out after her. Caro’s face is swollen and puffy, like she’s been crying. “Gracie!” she hollers. “You gotta get—”
“Hush your mouth!” Val scolds, jerking Caro’s arm.
Caro starts whimpering. It takes all I have not to launch myself over the porch rail and slap Val all the way to Sunday.
The sheriff steps out as a truck pulls up alongside his car. A group of men haul ass out the tailgate. They’ve got burlap hoods on. A few of them have shotguns. My heart jumps like a jackrabbit. The men stomp through Granny’s garden, crushing her tender peonies with their boots. Sheriff Murphy clears his throat, a wary look in his eyes. “Miss Doherty?”
“You know who I am, Sheriff . . . ,” I slur. The fever is just beginning to break, but my head’s still muzzy with it. Sweat beads along my hairline and rolls down my face. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve come with a warrant for your arrest.”
I could almost laugh if I felt better. “On what charges?”
“Arson.”
I raise my pounding head and look him straight in the eye. “Arson? First off, I didn’t start no fire. And I didn’t have nothin’ to do with Harlan, neither.”
There’s a rumble from the crowd of men. Some of them start cussing.
Murphy frowns. “Harlan Northrup?”
It takes me a minute, in my state, to realize my mistake. Goddamn this fever and my addled brain. The only reason I’d known anything about Harlan was because Bellflower told me he was dead in my vision.