The Splendour Falls (25 page)

He smiled a little sheepishly. ‘Just be careful whom you trust.'

It didn't take a huge leap to guess who –
whom
– he meant. ‘Are you saying don't trust Shawn?' That wasn't a surprise, given their animosity. But I was a little disappointed in Rhys for getting in digs when his opponent wasn't there to defend himself.

‘I am saying,' Rhys clarified carefully, ‘he's a very charming guy.'

‘And you don't like that,' I prompted. Which made me a hypocrite, since a moment ago I had been annoyed he was running Shawn down. But I wanted his thoughts on
something.

He shrugged, not as casually, I think, as he intended. ‘I think charm is overrated.'

That made me laugh, and it wasn't even bitter or sarcastic. ‘You
would
say that, Mr Sunshine.'

He drew himself up, so offended that I laughed again, and covered my mouth before the sound made Gigi bark. Slowly, Rhys acknowledged my point with a smile that chased away my irritation and left only the pull of attraction.

We stood that way for a long, ridiculous moment, until my out-of-practice grin faded, and there was nothing left to say but goodbye. But the longer he didn't say it, the more I didn't want him to.

I certainly couldn't. My tongue had tied itself in knots. Maybe because I was suddenly very aware that we were in my bedroom, and I was wearing my camisole and pink pyjama pants with bright yellow ducks. Which hadn't seemed like such a big deal until we shared that smile.

‘Are you all right now?' he asked, and I hoped he was asking because he didn't want to go either. Maybe it was wishful thinking that it wasn't just me remembering that moment he'd held me securely against him, the way his hands had rubbed the chill from my skin. Wondering how it would feel if he touched my arm for no reason but that he wanted to. If he brushed back my hair and traced the line of my neck.

It would be magic. I knew it like I knew my own name. And that was as crazy as any other thought that had entered my brain since I'd arrived in Cahaba. Maybe it was a good thing he was leaving for at least a day.

I remembered he'd asked me a question, and figured out how to make my tongue work again. ‘I'm fine. Right as rain.'

Great. Babbling clichés was always impressive.

Rhys smiled, like he knew me well enough to follow my thoughts. ‘I'll see you tomorrow night.'

I opened the door for him, offering more inanities. ‘Safe journey. Remember – drive on the right side of the road.'

He didn't dignify that with a laugh, just a wry ‘Got it. Right side.' But his hand brushed my arm as he left, a seemingly unconscious gesture of farewell that had no less – maybe even more – impact for how natural it was.

Shutting the door, I turned to find Gigi looking at me, cocking her head in confusion at this uncharacteristic flush of giddy girliness. ‘I know. It's my
arm,
for God's sake.'

Get a grip, Sylvie. There are strange dealings afoot.

I liked that phrase. It encompassed a lot. Natural, unnatural … But it didn't settle my mind as I tried to get to sleep.

A
t breakfast the next morning, Clara introduced me to hominy grits. I finally discovered why God put cheese and butter on the earth.

Not even the delicious treat – which I gathered wasn't everyday fare – was enough to cheer up Addie, however. She stirred the grits in her bowl and said in her most peevish voice, ‘These are loaded with fat, Mom. Why don't I just paint them on my thighs.'

‘That would be an interesting fashion choice,' I said. Pretty mildly, I thought, but she pinned me with a glare like an icicle.

‘Why are you even hanging around here? Shawn's not picking me up today – he's done with classes.'

‘Yeah.' I drew the word out sardonically. ‘Because I'm definitely building my day around a guy I've met three times.' Although I let a guy I'd only known for three days into my room. So maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to get on my high horse.

I left Addie to her sulk, and collected Gigi from her crate, where she'd been eating her own breakfast. As Paula had predicted, I found some basic gardening tools on the porch, including gloves. My hands had healed remarkably quickly – they'd stung in the bath last night, but I was surprised this morning that the skin was just a little pink, no blisters or scabs at all. Still, I'd learned my lesson: respect the greenery.

In the knot garden, I dove into weeding with an enthusiasm that lasted a solid thirty minutes. I'd only
thought
I grasped the difficulty of the project. Or maybe I'd thought, because I was my father's daughter, my knees wouldn't hurt and my leg wouldn't ache.

But it wasn't as if I had to be done tomorrow. I slowed down a bit, enjoying the soft earth and the quiet calm of the plants. Whatever else was going on at Bluestone Hill, I loved the feeling that I shared this spot with Dad, him in his time, and me in mine.

Paula came out after I'd been at it about an hour. I could see her checking over my work, which, I had to admit, didn't look that impressive. ‘Well, bless your heart, just look at that. I didn't even remember there was a bench there.'

That was how overgrown the place was. The first thing I'd done was rather haphazardly yank greenery
out from around the wrought-iron bench, and tether Gigi to it. Otherwise she would have wanted to help me weed, and she couldn't distinguish the difference between a dandelion and a daffodil.

Sadly, I wasn't sure I was much better. I'd had to refer a few times to the horticultural society's A to Z guide to plants. I'd found it in front of my door that morning. Rhys must have put it there, since I was pretty sure I'd dropped it in the hall.

Paula picked her way over the uneven path. She wore a salmon-coloured sweater set and a flowing floral skirt. Not exactly paint-the-front-bedroom clothes. ‘You look very nice,' I said, curious what had prompted this costume change. ‘That colour suits you.'

She looked pleased with the compliment, though she made a this-old-thing face as she smoothed the front of her sweater. ‘Thank you. I have an appointment in Selma and will probably be gone for lunch.'

‘Is “appointment” the Southern way of saying “hot date”?' I asked, fishing for details with an attempt at humour.

Her sideways look was the most droll I'd seen her. ‘No. It's a meeting about money. Refurbishment is expensive.'

‘Oh.' I felt a little awkward, since I hadn't thought about finances. Looking at the grand old Southern house and the acres of land, I assumed there was grand old Southern money to go with it. I tried not to visibly wince when I remembered telling Rhys that I had no designs on the place because Dad had left me well off. But he had.

‘If you're going back inside,' I said, glossing over my own awkwardness, ‘would you tell Clara not to trouble herself to make lunch if you're not going to be here? I'll just heat up some of yesterday's quiche.'

‘I'll do my best to convince her.'

‘Seriously. She feeds me like I'm an underweight turkey in September.' Clara's food was like Dad's allowance – wonderful to have, but more than I needed.

Paula made her exasperated face, her mouth tightening in annoyance. ‘Well, Sylvie, honey, that's how we take care of people down here in the South. Don't be ungrateful.'

‘I'm not!' I protested, irritated that the one time I wasn't being snarky, I still caught flak for it. Gigi barked, echoing my objection.

Paula dropped her hands from her hips. ‘Suit yourself. I'll see you this afternoon.' Skirting the pile of discarded weeds, she added, ‘I'm sure there's a trash bag somewhere, so you can clean up when you're done.'

Fortunately, she turned to exit the garden, so she missed the roll of my eyes. Then I looked at the magnitude of growth in the garden and realized I
was
going to have to see about starting a compost pile somewhere.

I worked until midmorning, then took a break, stretching my back and flexing my fingers. I was definitely going to need better clippers and – I examined a new blister on my thumb – new gloves, too. After grabbing a drink from the kitchen and leaving Gigi with a bowl of water on the porch, I figured the best place to look for that kind of thing was in the garage. I headed
there via the back yard, and entered through the door underneath the stairs to Clara and Addie's apartment.

It took me a minute to find the light switch. Growing up in Manhattan, I didn't have a lot of familiarity with family garages, so I wasn't sure where to start looking for gardening tools. This one was packed with
stuff.
Maybe not the accumulated detritus of the full two hundred years of Bluestone Hill's existence, but definitely the past thirty or so.

I poked around two lawn mowers – one gas-powered, and one push mower, as seen in fifties movies – and came up with a trowel, another hand spade and a not-quite-half-rusted pair of gardening clippers. No wonder the hedges were in such bad shape.

And then I found a real treasure. A bicycle. It looked about the same vintage as the push mower, but the tyres (incredibly) still had air, and it seemed in pretty good shape. It made me ridiculously happy. Not because I loved to ride bikes, or had fond childhood memories of learning, but because I was no longer trapped. I might not be able to go far, but I could certainly go farther than on foot. And that meant I could go to town.

It was sort of sad that I was already looking forward to a trip to Maddox Landing like it was a trip to Paris.

A
sign in front of a historic train depot said
MADDOX LANDING VISITORS' CENTRE
, and I gratefully turned my bicycle – almost as old as the train station – into the parking lot. Riding the stationary bike in physical therapy wasn't quite the same thing as pedalling two miles down a narrow country road. For one thing, in therapy I hadn't had a dog riding in a basket attached to the handlebars.

Gigi was strapped in – the harness a bit makeshift, but secure – and was having a great time. My backside,
on the other hand, was not. I hadn't accounted for the jarring of potholes, or the stress of riding on the grass shoulder when a car came barrelling down the road. There was also the problem of lack of padding, both in the bike's seat and my own. My butt hurt almost as much as my leg.

The train station, just off the state highway, was so quaint it was almost kitschy, especially compared with the rural dilapidation I'd glimpsed on my bike ride – more trailers and old houses, cars on blocks, mechanical parts littering yards like redneck lawn statuary. In town, however, the only thing that differentiated an old house from a new one was vinyl siding versus wood, and the commercial buildings all conformed to a sort of redbrick, small-town, Main Street charm.

The train-depot-slash-visitors'-centre was a narrow building, with platforms on both sides where once, I imagined, people had waited for the train to take them to civilization. I unfastened Gigi's harness from the basket, clipped her to her leash and left the bike propped up against the depot platform, figuring that if anyone stole it, at least I'd have an excuse to call for a ride. This time I'd made sure my phone was charged and ready. Just in case.

The window in the door looked suspiciously dark, and sure enough, when I pulled the handle, it didn't move. Only then did I read the sign that said
OPEN TUESDAY, THURSDAY AND SATURDAY
, 9–5.

I stared at the words with a sort of fatalistic frustration, then glanced down at my dog. ‘It figures. I guess visitors are only welcome every other day?'

Gigi sneezed her opinion. While she checked the canine messaging system on the ground, I investigated the notices posted on the glassed-in corkboard beside the door. Some were ads for local businesses and nearby attractions (like Old Cahawba), but most were postings for upcoming events, like the County High School graduation, to be held in the school auditorium on Saturday, and the impending Catfish Festival.

My excuse for coming to town was that I needed some tofu or soy milk to convince Clara I was getting enough protein. But I also wanted to find out more about my family, about the Davises and about Maddox Landing. Visiting Cahawba had helped, but now I needed some perspective newer than the eighteen hundreds.

So I found the lack of welcome at the visitors' centre inauspicious, and I tried to form a plan as I returned to the bicycle and tucked Gigi into her basket. My best bet – for my grocery-shopping cover story, and for getting more information on the town – would be downtown. There were only two blocks of it, so surely some opportunity would present itself.

I hadn't gone far, walking my bike along the shoulder, when a shiny red pickup slowed next to me. The truck looked familiar, and I definitely recognized the guy driving – his comfortably confident slouch behind the wheel, the way the curve of his easy smile made an answering one fight to turn up the corners of my own mouth. Even today, when I was hot and tired, and the ring of Rhys's words echoed in my head.
Charm is overrated.

‘Hey, Sylvie,' said Shawn Maddox. He'd rolled down the passenger window and leaned across the seat as he drove, one hand on the steering wheel. ‘Don't tell me you rode that piece of crap all the way from Bluestone Hill.'

Even with the wink in his voice, it was kind of an annoying question. ‘Of course not,' I said dryly. ‘Gigi pedalled part of the way.'

The dog barked at her name, and Shawn laughed. ‘You should have called me. I said I'd show you the town.'

‘I don't need to see the
whole
town,' I answered, unbending a little. ‘Just the grocery store. Maybe a gardening store, if you've got one.'

The truck crept along, keeping pace with me, tyres crunching on the asphalt. ‘We've got a hardware store, if that will work, and I can run you by the Piggly Wiggly.'