Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery) (2 page)

A knock on the front door makes both of us jump as though we’d
been trapped in a trance, and I let loose a shaky chuckle. “If our fourteen-year-old selves could see us now they would be sorely disappointed.”

“It’s true. We’re not even remotely cool. Although we both do still have awesome hair.”

“True. That’s something.”

I leave her in the kitchen and make my way to the front door, wondering who’s going to show up this time to tip my day on its back like
a turtle. We’re not expecting anyone, but then again, we weren’t expecting Mrs. Drayton to show up, either. Maybe it’s Mrs. Walters coming with a fake offering of late-season tomatoes just to get a peek inside the house.

Nope. A quick glance through the peephole reveals Beau, his hair mussed as though he’s run his hands through it countless times on his way over here. It’s getting long. He needs
a haircut, but since Sonny and Shears burned down and no one in town has taken secret-criminal Hadley Renee’s place as resident stylist, all of us are looking a little shaggy these days.

The expression on his face—half-desperate, half-angry—speeds up the beat of my heart.

Relief slumps his shoulders when I pull open the door and give him a tentative smile.

“Gracie, you’re… Hi.”

It’s almost
as though he was about to say…
you’re okay
. Which is ridiculous. Am I supposed to believe that the cultured, put-together woman who came to offer me the best opportunity of my young career is someone who could make me
not
okay?

“Hi,” I reply, more guarded now. “I’m fine,” I say pointedly.

Beau flinches, and instead of inviting him inside I step out onto the porch. We sit together on the squeaky,
green-painted front porch swing as we’ve done so many times, our toes pushing us back and forth a few times as the tension tightens between us.

“I know you’re fine, Gracie Anne, but my mother…she doesn’t make things easy.”

“For you or for me?”

“For most people.” He bites off the words, so bitter they leave a bad taste in my mouth. Our eyes meet, and he heaves a sigh at the look I pass his way.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her idea.”

Earlier, I felt peeved by his not coming to me, but now, seeing the almost-tortured regret on his face, it all bleeds out of me. “Why didn’t you?”

He tips his head back until it’s supported by the rusty chains that anchor the swing to the porch roof. Breathes out. The quiet feels softer now, not pressed so tight against us, but my anxiety remains.
There’s a sense of fear that’s impossible to shake. It’s almost as though this moment, his response, has the potential to define us going forward—for better or worse.

“My family isn’t like yours,” he says.

“Well, I certainly hope not. We can’t all be dreamers and crackpots, you know. Someone has to be responsible.” My attempt at lightening the mood falls on its face so hard it makes me wince.
He’s alluded to his family before, how growing up in that house, with money, wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Now, watching him, so obviously hurt, I still can’t understand why. It sucks not being able to help, but I
am
sure of two things: first, whatever the truth, however bad, it’s going to help me know this man I’ve come to care about, and second, it’s going to break my heart.

“Your family
may be odd in some ways, Gracie—though not nearly as many as you seem to think—but you grew up knowing you were loved. No amount of supposed normalcy and affluence can replace that.” He runs a hand through his hair again, and close-up, it looks as though it needs a wash.

I frown, my senses on high alert. There are signs everywhere that he’s bothered by something, isn’t himself, and maybe it’s
more than his mother showing up to offer me a job.

“I didn’t tell you about my mother’s idea because she doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of her heart…or without a personal agenda. I had hoped to discover what it was before discussing the situation with you.”

The comment brings back my irritation, and I scoot away, turning to face him with plenty of space between us. “So, it couldn’t
be that she
honestly
has archival work that needs to be done, and she
honestly
thinks I might be the best person for the job? That’s not possible?”

“Of course that’s
part
of the reason. Don’t misunderstand. My mother would also never let anyone near those archives who she didn’t believe was more than capable of handling them. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“The family has never let
anyone
near
them. I’ve always been under the impression that they hold some sort of awful secrets, or at the very least, the sort of information that would reflect poorly on our family name.”

“Every family has secrets, Beau.”

“Not like mine.” The raw edge to his voice worms its way into my chest.

I scoot closer again until one of my knees presses against his thigh. It’s hard to pinpoint the source of the
worry that grabs at my lungs, squeezes the back of my neck, but secrets? Amelia is right about those: they’ll get us nowhere.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to accept the job?” I swallow hard. “Because it’s an amazing opportunity for me. Like you said, no one has been near those archives in heaven knows how long and she’s going to let me rifle through them. I want to do it.”

“You aren’t the
kind of woman who would let me tell you what to do. That’s one of the many reasons I’m falling in love with you, Gracie Anne.” He pauses, letting that sink in. Maybe for me, maybe for him. Maybe for us both. Our eyes meet, his hazel ones a storm of emotion and wetter than I’ve ever seen them. “I love you.”

My heart explodes in my chest and the world beyond the swing, beyond the porch, blurs.
My eyes well up and I choke on my fear. There are a million worries careening off the inside of my skull. What if I’m wrong again? What if he turns out to be awful? What if this all falls apart? What if I break his heart?

What if he breaks mine?

You can’t crawl back from the darkness again
, whispers a devil as he lounges near my ear.
You’ll never make it.

My breathing speeds up. Panic encroaches
on the moment from all sides, trying to cut me off from my senses, but the solid, steady grip of Beau’s hands around mine feeds calm into my body. The hopeful, adoring look on his face pushes away the fear until it tumbles off the porch and into the street, taking my devils with it.

I feel a smile stretch my lips, surprising me as relief softens my boyfriend’s face. “I love
you,
Mr. Mayor.”

His lips are on mine before I finish the declaration, and I laugh into his mouth. The joy flows between us in the hunger of lips, the curled-up grins, and the desire in a quick brush of tongues. When he eases back we’re both smiling, but I give him a good whack on his solid bicep, anyway.

“Hey! You’re so violent.”

“You think you can just tell me you love me and make all this with your mother
go away?”

“I was hoping it might work for a day or two.” The reddish tint to his cheeks suggests he’s not entirely joking, and a little embarrassed at the fact.

“Nope. Sorry.” I keep our fingers locked together when he tries to pull away, and this time, when his gaze meets mine, it’s serious. “I’m going to take the job, Beau. It’s too important for my career. But I promise to consider what you’ve
said and to be on my guard when it comes to your mother. Okay?”

A heavy sigh winds out of him. “It’ll have to do.”

The way he looks away, too quickly, makes me sure there are still plenty of things about his life, about his family, that I don’t know. Maybe that’s fine. People always have secrets, no matter how much they want to believe they don’t, or how well we know them. I’m of the opinion
that it’s okay—we’re still ourselves, even with the people we love.

Love.
The word brings another smile to my face.

The thought of secrets, mostly my own, wipes it away. I take a deep breath, and when Beau looks back into my face, I know there are some secrets that are okay to keep.
 

And some that aren’t, not when we have a choice.

“My whole life, my mother told me that my father died before
I was born,” I start. “She would never talk about him except to say that. I don’t think my grandparents ever knew who he was, to be honest, even though she got pregnant with me when she still lived in Heron Creek.”

“Okay.” He’s waiting, patient, a thumb stroking the soft skin on the back of my hand. It’s more than a little distracting, but letting that be the excuse for stopping can’t happen.

“My ex called the other day. He said that a man showed up at our apartment in Iowa City claiming to be my father.”

“What? That’s… I don’t even know what to say.” His brow furrows, his eyebrows connecting over the bridge of his nose. “What did
you
say to that?”

After being with David, a man prone to flying into possessive fits of rage after the tiniest mention of an interaction with another man,
Beau’s reaction floors me. No snappish questions about why I spoke to David when he called or why I hadn’t changed my number. No pointed accusations about lingering feelings that would force me into fruitless denials.

It reassures me further as far as the declarations of a moment before go. There’s no way to know what the future will bring, but this man? He’s worthy of risks, even ones that involve
my heart.

“I was in shock, I think. I don’t know. I gave him our address here.”

Concern darkens Beau’s face. “I’m not sure that was the best idea.”

“I’m not either, but it’s done. If he shows up, I’ll deal with it.”

“You realize that you’ll need to have a way to verify his claims…”

I put up a hand, already overwhelmed. “We’ll start with what he wants, I think, and go from there. If he even
comes at all.”

“Just to be safe, I really think you and Amelia should invest in a security system. Or a dog.” He gives me a look, tinged with amusement. “I’m quite disappointed in your ghosts’ lack of interest in scaring people away. Especially since an oddly high number of living humans seem to want to hurt you.”

“They’re terrible at haunting, I’ll give you that.” I scoot forward, wrapping
my arms around his neck and pulling our bodies together snugly.

His strong hands grip my hips, and Beau smiles down into my face. “Are you trying to distract me, Constituent Harper?”

“Maybe. Maybe I just want to convince you to stay over as much as possible. Protect me.” I bat my eyelashes like I’m Mae West. “Do your civic duty and all that.”

“You know I’m quite amenable to that request, darlin’,
but I can’t be here all the time.”

“Fine.” I pout, but not for too long. I would be inclined to dismiss his worries if it were just me in the house, but with Amelia having so many troubles with her health—mental and otherwise—and baby Jack to think about, maybe an alarm system isn’t a bad idea. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

He kisses my nose. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Hmm. What else are
you going to hold me to? Or against?”

“I’ll let you use your imagination.” He’s playing along, but his gaze is distracted. Whatever’s on his mind pulls him away from me, into his thoughts.

Anxiety returns, dropping deep roots of dread into my belly. My phone buzzes in my back pocket right then, nearly giving me a heart attack. I pull it out, hoping for a few seconds to compose myself enough
to walk inside on gooey knees.

The text message doesn’t do anything to help with my nerves, romantic or otherwise. It’s from Cordelia Drayton.

I’ve spoken to Sean Dennison, our archivist at Magnolia, and he’ll be available to walk you through the current documents tomorrow morning at nine. Afterward, you’ll meet with the preservation expert at Drayton Hall, Jenna Lee. I’ll have my secretary
e
-
mail you directions, should you need them.

No question about my own availability or if I can start immediately. There’s a sinking feeling all around me, making my heart drop, caused by the realization that this job, while an amazing opportunity, isn’t going to be a walk in the park. And that’s without even worrying that Beau is right about Mrs. Drayton having some kind of ulterior motive
in asking me to be a part of opening family documents that have been kept private for generations.

I wish more than anything that one of us had a clue what she was up to.

Chapter Two

Beau and I grab coffee together at Westies before heading our separate ways the next morning. It’s Monday, which means it’s my day off at the library, but Cordelia and I are going to have to discuss a schedule going forward because leaving Millie alone to hold down the fort with Mr. Freedman isn’t an option.

My stomach ties itself into knots on the brief fifteen-minute drive
out to Magnolia Plantation. The lengthy, oak-lined drive would take anyone’s breath away—the original owners designed it to intimidate and impress—but today, my mind lodges on less appealing things. Like whether or not I’m up to this huge task. Or why my boyfriend’s mother offered me the opportunity in the first place.

I pull into a parking space in a half-full lot. The house is huge with wraparound
decks—or verandas—on two levels. The main structure at Magnolia dates back to just after the Civil War. It’s the third home to grace the property and the grandest, for sure, but the true treasure of this acreage is the gardens. They’re sweeping, lush, and unlike most of the pristine, Versailles-inspired layouts, and look as though they sprung straight from God’s own fingers. Magnolia is popular
among brides and has been a staple for visitors to the area for years.

Basically, if the Drayton family needed to—which they don’t—they could live off the proceeds from this plantation alone. They contribute to tons of charities—they own a foundation that finances scholarships and grant opportunities in an array of fields like archiving, horticulture, gardening, local history, and a bunch of
other stuff. No one can accuse the Draytons of not giving back, but they certainly keep plenty.