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Birch Trueblood—a proud Ojibwe healer, who now works as a shaman, performing rituals for New Age believers and tourists.
He does what he has to in order to support his young daughter. But when he’s called on to help communicate with ghosts at an historic bed and breakfast, he never guesses it’ll be the woman who runs the place that will haunt his dreams.
Rochelle LeClaire—owner of Rosewood B&B.
She and Birch have crossed paths before, and she has no reason to believe he’s anything but a fraud. But then her eccentric aunt hires him—to communicate with the spirits haunting the house of all things! Suddenly he’s in her space, in her thoughts . . . and eventually, in her bed.
But when long-hidden secrets come to light, will their fragile bond be strong enough to hold them together?
Kathleen Eagle published her first book, a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award winner, with Silhouette Books in 1984. Since then she has published nearly 50 books, including historical and contemporary, series and single title, earning her nearly every award in the industry. Her books have consistently appeared on regional and national bestseller lists, including the
USA Today list and the
New York Times extended bestseller list. Kathleen Eagle lives in Minnesota with her husband, who is Lakota Sioux. The Eagles have three children and three grandchildren.
Coming Soon!
Prologue
Little Falls, Minnesota, 1911
REBECCA WAS
DRESSED for drowning.
Anyone who might
intrude on her would be surprised to find her seated before the vanity mirror,
all done up. Anyone who did not know her—and almost no one did—would assume
that she had taken the odd notion to join the party, that she was ready to soon
descend the paneled staircase, choose a partner among her sister’s guests, and
dance the night away. But there was nothing so frivolous in her choice of
layered crinoline and satin. A thick wool cape lay across the bed, and her
winter boots stood nearby in testimony. Rebecca would soon be going out.
She could delay
no longer. The advent of winter was too unpredictable in this godforsaken
place. The cheerless season had already begun to press the day into a few gray
hours, to squeeze Rebecca’s mind, freeze her feet, grind her joints, and bind
her muscles. Soon she would be powerless to free herself.
But not yet.
Her heart
pounded, pressured by the thrill of self-determination. She could still make a
choice for herself, still act on it. She was, for this one night, in control of
something. A small thing, her life, but something truly in her hands, at least
for tonight.
Her sister’s
annual harvest party had started with a musical flourish, but Rebecca would not
be missed. Nor would she be missed from her sister’s house unless the baby woke
up and managed to make his voice heard. Taking pen in hand, she imagined Rose’s
lithe fingers dancing over the piano keys, ivory on ivory, delighting her
guests with her own clever arrangement of lively ragtime tunes.
Dearest
Sister,
Be brief, she
told herself as she dipped into the inkwell. A guest’s poor attempt to sing
might prompt Rose to decide to come looking for her. Rebecca had not sung in
years—not since she had left the warmth and sunshine of New Orleans, where
there had been something to sing about. No wonder the new-sprung Mississippi
rushed headlong past this grand misfit of a house on its way to the South.
Winter is coming. I feel my
humor declining by the hour. I am forbidden all company that gives me pleasure
except yours. I cannot continue to live this way, but after giving a great deal
of thought to the problem, I find myself at a complete loss for any other way
to live. And so I am content to seek the alternative. I have puzzled for some
time over the questions of time and means. For a few hours, I thought giving
birth would kill me, but unfortunately, it did not. A fat lot of pain wasted,
if you ask me.
Rebecca
smiled at the shadow she cast over the paper. Slight and fair, she appeared to
be the more fragile of the two sisters, but she had a strong body. Sadly,
weakness prevailed in her mind and will.
Only God knows why I am cursed
with a child and he with me. It does not take a sane mind to breed, but a woman
ought to have her wits about her for mothering, as you and I well know. I leave
the whelp in your capable hands, sister, for he is the child you were meant to
have. If this was the purpose for my existence—and I can think of no other—then
it is fulfilled. Please, may I be excused now?
A
wave of nausea precluded her from signing any more than an R. With a
clammy hand, she carefully placed the pen in the inkwell tray. She did not look
forward to the act itself. She had to think past it. Better yet, she had to
stop thinking and simply move along withher plan, taking her cue and her direction from the river. She would
depend on the river to deliver her.
She opened the
window, dropped her cape onto the roof below, pulled the back of her skirt
between her legs, and secured it to her waist. Cautiously, she climbed from
sill to ledge to jutting roof. It would not be long before the cold air woke
the baby, even though she had swaddled him in warm wool. With her last breath,
she would will him to survive and live well.
At the edge of
the second-story eave, she enlisted help from the Woman Tree, making a
practiced descent along the forked trunk until her right foot found secure perch
in the tree’s crotch. Shifting her weight onto her left hip, she found the
navel knot with the toe of her left boot, stretching her own birthing-battered
crotch almost unbearably. Like the tree, whose human features she and her
sister had discovered together, she bore abuse with hushed horror.
Look, Rosie,
doesn’t this look like a woman standing on her head? Look at her from this
angle. See? The roots look like a woman’s hair spreading over the ground.
Her sister was
dubious, as always. Rose had never been able to do a handstand the way Rebecca
could, not even when they were girls, and she would never wear men’s pants or
tie her skirts up for fun. But Rebecca did. Rebecca was a woman like no other.
Rose was a lady, like many others. For Rebecca’s sake, Rose had relented and
tipped her head. Yes, that could be a face at the base of the tree, the eyes
there, and there the mouth, laughing or screaming, with no sound coming out.
And these
gnarly bumps—one breast hanging a little lower than the other, the nice deep
navel here. And look at the way she’s spreading her legs for God! No, it isn’t
lewd or disgusting. Why wouldn’t God make love to a tree?
Because trees
are trees, and God is God.
And Rose has
no imagination. Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop. Look at her slim hips and her
strong thighs, Rosie. If God felt like having an earthy, passionate, sexual
experience, He would choose that tree. I’m sure of it.
The memory sent
Rebecca fairly skipping through the wet grass. She avoided the garden paths,
even though she knew she could not be seen from the brightly lit windows on
this moonless night. The music had stopped. Guests were taking their places for
dinner. Martin Bruner’s business associates would find their place cards on the
dining-room table, while Rose’s book-club friends would dine on the River
Porch. Sometime between dinner and the return to music and dancing, Rose would
send a plate of food upstairs for her sister. By that time, food would no
longer be necessary.
Cupid’s Bench
was Rebecca’s favorite place in the gardens. Perched just above the rocky
shoreline, the massive stone bench was her place to have her communion with the
river. Night was the best time, when the lumber mills on the opposite shore
were hardly visible. Summer voices had gone dormant, all but one. The baby’s
dreaded bleating came sooner than expected.
Rebecca found a
large rock for every pocket in her cape, then sat down to put her boots on and
partake of her last rites. The outward, visible sign—the river’s soft gurgle
and sweet eddy—assured her of inward, invisible grace. No more long winters. No
more desperate, impossible liaisons. No uninvited child to tend. Rebecca would
wrap herself in the river and ride its currents home.
Ojibwe
village of Chief Wadena,
Mille Lacs Lake
Mary clutched one
child in her arms and shouted the other’s name. The baby bleated like a
terrorized lamb. Mary’s father had gone back into their burning cabin for
little Trueblood, and neither of them had reappeared. "Help us,” she pleaded,
reaching for her neighbor as he hurried past her with a bucket of lake water in
each hand. "They haven’t come out yet!”
"Stay back,
Mary!” Arlin shouted, sparing a glance that his tired, tearing eyes could ill
afford. "Take the baby and run!”
"That’s your
uncle in there, Arlin. Can’t you try the back door?”
Backpedaling,
water sloshing over his boots, Arlin had the dazed look of a lost soul. "It’s
all going to burn!”
"Let the houses
go,” Mary pleaded. Surely the man could see that his efforts to douse the
flames were useless. The loss of their homes was nothing new for the Ojibwe
people, but the loss of a man’s sense of what he had to do was unnerving to a
woman of clear vision.
See to the
children and the elders, you crazy man.
"Here, hold the
baby.” Mary persisted as she shoved her bundled daughter against her befuddled
cousin’s chest. "I’ll get them out myself.”
"Stay back,” the
big man ordered, backing away from the proffered howling baby. One bucket
slipped from his hand and landed on its side in the dry grass. "Who are they to
tell us we cannot live where we have always lived? We are so few, and they—” He
flung the other bucket toward the house with a furious howl. "They have no
right!” he shouted as he ran toward the back of Mary’s house.
They were the white sheriff and his men, and
they came to the village many times to deliver paper demands from this one and
final notices from that one—the Minnesota governor, the army, the department in
Washington—all strangers to the people of Chief Wadena’s small village on the lake.
This time the sheriff and his posse had brought guns instead of paper, and fire
instead of words.
There were so
few of them left on the wooded south shore of Mille Lacs, where earthen mounds
and burial grounds stood witness to their timeless occupation. Most of the
people had yielded to the whites’ demand for their relocation, but Mary and her
relatives had stayed. Wadena, one of their leaders, insisted that no response
was warranted. Saying nothing, they would neither move nor be moved. There was
no stopping the white men from doing as they pleased, Wadena told his people,
but surely they could take all they wanted without bothering to bodily lug
fewer than a hundred Ojibwe holdouts all the way to the northwestern corner of
the state.
It was not the
Ojibwe themselves the whites had come to remove, but as much of their property
as would fit into the wagons the sheriff’s men had brought to the village. He
had ordered the winter cabins dismantled, and while the people watched, the
logs from some of the roofs had been pulled down and tossed in a pile. It was a
strange bit of business. The Ojibwe didn’t know what to think. They had not
anticipated the torching, and when the first kerosene-drenched rags were set
aflame, they stood momentarily dumbfounded, as though the white men had come to
entertain them with fire.
But a sudden
move from Wadena caused a flurry of activity. "Watch them!” the sheriff shouted
as he clapped Wadena in irons. "You people stay away from any weapons!”
Arlin and a few
others had gone for buckets and cook pots instead.
Now Arlin
staggered forth just as Mary’s home caved in on itself. But she gave a joyous
squeal. A squirming, slippery prize, little Trueblood was unceremoniously
dropped at his mother’s feet by his exhausted deliverer, who retained his hold
on a small coat sleeve.
The boy tried to
shake him off. "He won’t get up,” Trueblood sobbed, clutching his grandfather’s
medicine bundle close to his chest. "Grandfather won’t get up.”
"‘We will not be
moved,’ he said.” Gulping several breaths, Arlin shook his head. "His legs were
broken, Mary.”
"Better than his
spirit.” Her teary gaze followed the smoke that carried her father into the
purpling sky. "They cannot deny us that.”
Chapter One
Little Falls, Minnesota,
present day
ROCHELLE SMELLED grass
burning somewhere in the cold night. And it was no ordinary Kentucky Blue.
The light was
still on in Aunt Meg’s bedroom window, even though she had sworn that she was
too tired to eat or bathe or brush her teeth before going to bed. But it was
just the two of them at Rosewood tonight, and somebody was burning something.
It wasn’t Rochelle. In her condition, Aunt Meg was liable to set her precious
old mansion on fire. Hadn’t she had enough smokus pokus for one day?
Rochelle hated
to go back inside. She had just gotten comfortable on the stone bench
overlooking the river, tucking herself in a blanket to keep the early-autumn
chill at bay while she listened to the water lap against the rocks below. She
loved this time of year in this place she would always call home. She
particularly loved to wrap herself in the seclusion of this tranquil spot at
the edge of the gardens and dream, especially after a day of being
painfully nice to some very strange people and an evening of tallying the
columns in all-too-familiar books. What a pleasure to count stars for a while
instead of pennies!
The granddaughter
of Minnesota lumber baron Martin Bruner, Aunt Meg didn’t know how to be
anything but wealthy. But the Bruner money no longer grew on trees, and
Rochelle had all she could do to keep the two roofs of Rosewood over the old
woman’s head. The Bruner estate had been named for Great-grandmother Rose,
Martin’s beloved wife. Dear wife. Precious wife. During
the years that had passed between her death and his, the terms of endearmenthad been applied with such consistency that even now the name Rose or
the words Martin’s wife were never spoken at Rosewood without one of his
favorite qualifiers.
The rambling
vestiges of Bruner family life on the upper Mississippi—a far cry from Mark
Twain territory in almost every way imaginable—were all Aunt Meg had left,
whether she realized it or not. From all indications—the variety of books
shelved in every room in either house, the music, the letters from prestigious
acquaintances—Margaret Bruner had been a woman of independent thought in her
day, if not independent means. As near as Rochelle could tell, she had not
spent money so much as she had donated it. She had given it away hand over
fist, which was fine. It was her money.
But Rochelle
would not allow the houses to go before Aunt Meg did. Now, as the threat of fire
smelled more imminent than bankruptcy, Rochelle dragged herself off the bench,
tossed a corner of the wool blanket over her shoulder, and trudged up the
gravel path toward the "new” house, the home Martin Bruner had purchased from
his partner for his only son, Ernest, who had enlisted in the army against his
father’s wishes in 1941 and gone missing somewhere in France. Ernest’s wife had
then gone missing somewhere in Chicago. Family tradition, the old woman was
wont to say without elaborating, but Rochelle imagined two poor little rich
girls who would one day be her mother and aunt left to rattle around Rosewood
with their grandfather and his household staff.
Aunt Meg had
modernized the new house when she’d taken charge after her grandfather’s death
in the early 1950s, but she had not seen fit to change much since that time.
Its dark green siding and Father Knows Best furnishings were right in
style with the current retro craze. But for the main house, dear Rose had known
best. It remained white. Inside, Martin Bruner had kept every stick of dark
wood, every scrap of Victorian wallpaper, every glass lampshade, and every bit
of embroidered linen the way his precious wife had left it. The main house was
perfect for the business Rochelle was now struggling to establish in what had
become an out-of-the-way town after its single industry had dried up. And the
new house was perfect for preserving two generations of girlish daydreams.
"Aunt Meg, is
everything all right?”
"Some things
are. Some aren’t.” The old woman turned from the window, lifting her chin to
welcome the sound of Rochelle’s voice even before she angled the wheelchair for
a frank look. "I’m feeling restless. It’s still too early in the season to turn
the heat on, but the night’s chill has a way of sinking into dry old bones. I
feel old and cold, and that makes me restless.”
"This is what
you used to call good sleeping weather, isn’t it? Are you burning something in
here?” She’d lost track of the smell, but she scanned the room for other signs.
"After I caught
hell for burning a few little candles the other night? I should say not.”
"It was only
because you fell asleep.”
"Oh, yes, that’s
right. You said something about a warning label. Everything comes with a
warning these days. Be afraid, they say. Be very afraid. But technically, they
weren’t burning unattended. I was only half asleep.”
"And you only
caught half a hell.” Rochelle smiled as she claimed the window seat—her own
special place in her aunt’s bedroom ever since she could remember—putting them
knee to knee and eye to eye. "I was outside, sitting by the river on Cupid’s
Bench, and I’m sure I smelled grass or incense—something was burning. If I
didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were up here smoking a joint.”
"Do you smell
anything now?”
Rochelle
diffidently lifted one shoulder, easy with being quizzed. Looking after the
woman she had looked up to all her life felt awkward at best. She wanted her
old role back.
"It must have
been from before,” Meg said absently, turning her attention beyond the window,
into the darkness.
"But they’ve
been gone for hours.” Worried about coming across as a cynic rather than a
bemused skeptic, Rochelle had carefully avoided the odd group of women who had
spent the weekend at Rosewood. She didn’t want to make the Daughters of Earth
feel uncomfortable. They were good for several weekend retreats a year.
"Some of them
have been gone years,” Meg mused. "Centuries. But I sense their presence more
all the time—those who were here before our time.”
"What are you
saying, Aunt Meg? Be—”
"Afraid,” the
old woman chimed in, a sign that she was, in Rochelle’s mind and much to her
relief, back from beyond. Smiling at each other, they chanted in unison, "Be
very afraid.”
"But you’re
not,” Rochelle said.
"Of course not.
They’ve done no harm yet, and I don’t expect them to start now. Do you?”
"Oh, Aunt Meg.”
Rochelle laughed and shook her head. "I don’t know what to say to you on that
score.”
"Then don’t say
anything. I don’t want you to start patronizing me in my dotage, dear girl. I
never patronized you, did I?”
"You never
treated me like a child, even when I was one.”
"You’ve always
been a worthy companion, no matter what your age. Age is nothing, Shelly. An
open mind is ageless and boundless, you know. You’ve never been stingy with
your views, and I’ve never been offended by them. So feel free to say what’s on
your mind. After all, to say a thing is or is not doesn’t make it so.”
"What about
seeing it or not seeing it? Doesn’t that make a difference?”
"I have a friend
who is blind. She sees nothing through her eyes. Does that mean we’re all
invisible?”
"She can feel
our physicality,” Rochelle reasoned.
Dim lamp light
softened Aunt Meg’s crafty smile. "And you smelled their scent-sitivity.”
"I smelled something,”Rochelle admitted. "It was real, though, really in the air—right now,
tonight. In the moment. Clear and present smell, and that’s all I know
for sure. Whether one of our weekend guests was still lurking in the bushes, I
couldn’t say, but do know that I saw every one of them off with a very polite
smile—even that crabby old Marilee.”
"I’m sorry that
woman turned out to be such a poop,” Aunt Meg said with a sigh. "When she
approached me about offering her program at Rosewood, she seemed pleasant
enough, and the topic sounded interesting—finding your creative spirit.”
"That’s the way
I worded the announcement, but I now stand corrected. Repeatedly. The title was
The Road To Creativity—Getting Acquainted With Your Spirit Guides.”
"She certainly
turned out to be a sour soul, didn’t she? Ariel’s friends seemed to take her in
stride, but I think Ariel’s right. We need to purge the grounds of her bad
vibes. Although, if you’re smelling something burning, maybe the spirits have
already taken care of it.”
"Ariel!” Rochelle
wagged an aha finger. "She must be burning some of her herbal delights.”
"Oh, no, she
went home earlier. I spoke with her on the phone a few minutes ago. We’re going
to have a ceremony as soon as she can arrange something.”
A warning light
flashed in Rochelle’s mind. "What kind of a ceremony?”
"We’ll see what
Ariel can come up with,” the old woman said with a shrug. "A cleansing
ceremony. The road to the spirit guides runs right through Rosewood, and I
don’t want it littered with bad vibes.”
"You made another
donation to the Indians at Mille Lacs, didn’t you?” Rochelle surmised.
"A very small
one.”
"Aunt Meg, you
have to consult with me first,” Rochelle pleaded. But her aunt looked away. She
was a proud woman, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of a
consultation, and Rochelle wasn’t taking well to the giving end. "Or at least
tell me right away so I can—”
"Five thousand
for a new display at the museum. That’s all.” She lifted her hand, gnarled
fingers splayed. "Five thousand. And it’s all tax deductible.”
Rochelle nodded.
No use scolding the woman. After sisters Margaret and Selena had inherited the
Bruner fortune, each one had practiced her own method of relieving herself of
the burden of wealth. Rochelle’s mother had spent hers on old wine, new clothes,
young men, and unreliable advice. She had been the proverbial prodigal
daughter. Rochelle always believed that her mother had lived and died exactly
the way she chose.
Aunt Meg, on the
other hand, had given much of hers away. She had supported fledgling artists,
talented prodigies, and gifted scholars, particularly those whose eligibility
for funds was tacitly undermined by their gender or race or some other fact of
life that should not have put them at a disadvantage. But Margaret Bruner
understood that it did. She invested in the "underfunded,” as she called
them—both people and programs—with her mind and her money. She would not say heart,which sounded too much like charity.
When she had
divested herself down to the two hulking houses, their contents, and the barely
manageable grounds, her own heart revealed its frailty. She claimed to be
experiencing her mother’s "spells,” and her doctors agreed that she was in
trouble. The summer Rochelle had planned to spend taking care of her had turned
into more than a year spent devising ways to stall off selling the property and
thereby save her aunt’s peace of mind. She had agreed to take charge of the
bookkeeping in return for Aunt Meg’s consent to a business experiment, "just
for fun.” Rochelle’s claim that teaching in Minneapolis had become increasingly
difficult and proportionately less fulfilling was true—talk about
under-funding.... No, she could not talk about it, not with
Aunt Meg. Any more donations and she would be out in the street.
She was also
unwilling to admit that she didn’t intend to give up entirely on her career as
a teacher and become a full-time innkeeper. If Rochelle could get the business
started, she hoped that Ariel might be able to keep it running. In fact, the
promise of keeping Ariel on the payroll was the best part of Rochelle’s pitch.
While Aunt Meg couldn’t imagine doing without her housekeeper and personal
assistant, she already suspected that Ariel had cut her own wages. If she found
out that she had nothing left to give away, Aunt Meg might well decide that her
job was done and that it was time to join her invisible grass-burning friends
in the next life.
But Rochelle was
not ready for that to happen.
"Do we have any
bookings for the first week in November?” Aunt Meg couched her surprising
question in a casual tone. She rarely asked about bookings. It was understood
that hosting guests in her home for money was fundamentally distasteful to her,
and so they spoke little of the details of the business or the necessity to make
it work.
"They normally
taper off around then.”
In fact, they
had no bookings for November. Or December.
"What about the
writers’ retreat we talked about? It’s so peaceful here. You promised me that
we’d be hosting artists and writers and musicians if we opened our home for
these so-called retreats. So far it’s been bankers, salesmen, and Ariel’s
interesting but half-a-bubble-off-plumb friends.”
"So you’re not
really buying into that stuff?”
"I’m not buying
into their stuff, Shelly. I have my own ideas, my own stuff. Look
around you, dear.” Her sweeping gesture directed her niece’s attention to a
fraction of the book collection she housed at Rosewood. "There’s a lifetime of
study on these bookshelves. My lifetime, and my studies. I didn’t suddenly
notice this aging face in the mirror one day and start hatching reassuring
notions about the spirit world.”
"I know that,
Aunt Meg.” She also knew that the woman had read every book on the premises and
loved nothing more than a lively discussion of any idea they might contain.
"And we do have the Midwest Ghost Photography Association booked again for next
spring, which should lift your spirits.”
"Indeed.” Aunt
Meg smiled, leaving Rochelle to wonder what her knowing look was all about.
Sometimes it was
better to wonder than to ask. All too often the knowing was really an
invitation to one of those lively discussions, which could be exhausting.
Rochelle couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t longed to impress Margaret
Bruner with an original thought about some enduring question. She continued to
come up short, probably because her curiosity only stretched so far. Beyond
earth, flower, river, or bird in the bush, Rochelle was on shaky ground. And
like most Midwesterners, she didn’t much like shaky ground.
"Don’t you think
our ghosts would appeal to writers?” her aunt persisted.
"I’m working on
it, Aunt Meg. It seems that writers would rather retreat to places like Hawaii
or southern California. Minnesota isn’t top on the retreat list.”
"Not even in the
fall?”
The disappointment
in her aunt’s voice was enough to send Rochelle out on a writer hunt. "Maybe if
we—”
"I’m sure a
painter would be enchanted by the way the spiritual presence in the garden
enhances the fall colors. Your great-grandmother was a wonderful painter, you
know. What do they call those photographs with the showers of colored lights?”
Trick
photography, Rochelle thought, but she said, "Orbs?”
"The orbs are
the circles—those wonderful white bubbles. But the colorful shower of tiny
lights that shows up in some of the pictures taken in the garden would surely
inspire a lovely watercolor.”
"And we could
call it The Thousand Points of Light in Rosewood’s Bushes.”
"Oh, Shelly, we
used to have wonderful parties here when I was a girl,” Aunt Meg enthused
without so much as a chuckle for Rochelle’s show of wit. "I would invite people
I’d met in New York. Van played the grand piano in the music room. Chloe Finch
read her poetry on the river porch. Oh, there were some whispers about town
when Marian Anderson visited. In those days, you know, people raised a fuss
when I entertained people of color, but I didn’t give a fig for that kind of
attitude. And, oh, that woman had the voice of an angel.”
"You were a
generous patron of the arts, Aunt Meg.”
"As I see it,
that’s our job. What did I do to deserve all this money? I was born a Bruner.
My only gift is in recognizing the gifts of others. Grandfather didn’t always
approve, but he indulged me. And when he died, well...”
"You went all
out.”
"Those are the
people we must bring to these retreats of yours, Shelly. I want you to enjoy
the company of gifted people.” She patted Rochelle’s knee. "Not that you aren’t
gifted yourself, my dear, but mixing with interesting and talented people helps
us develop our gifts. I’ve gained far more than I could ever give, and so will
you.”
"You had a
reason for asking about the first week in November?”
"Oh, yes.” She
took a pale blue envelope from the pocket of her robe. "I have a letter from
your sister.”
"Crystal wrote
you a letter?”
"She’s getting
married again.”
"Really.” That
her older sister would remarry was no surprise, but it was the kind of news
Rochelle would expect to be the first to hear in gushing detail. "And she wroteto tell you about it?”
"I’m sure the
letter was meant for both of us. She must not have our phone number.”
"It’s easy
enough to find.”
"She’s thinking
of having the wedding here.”
"That would be
quite a switch from the first wedding.” Rochelle didn’t want to dampen Aunt
Meg’s enthusiasm before Crystal did, but she needed to get real from the
outset. "Did you tell her what the rates are?”
The old woman
raised her brow. "Do I detect an unseemly bite to that remark?”
Rochelle smiled
affectionately. "Unlike some people, I still have all my teeth.”
"Ouch. Another
bite.”
"Is she still in
California? The last time I tried to call her, the number was no longer in
service.”
"The letter came
from Chicago.” Aunt Meg checked the postmark to make sure. "Yes, Chicago.
Interesting.” She reached for Rochelle’s hand. "I know what it’s like, Shelly.
Crystal is so much like her mother. Selena had no use for family ties. If it
hadn’t been for you, I might have lost track of her, too.” They exchanged hand
squeezes. "But wouldn’t it be lovely to have a family wedding here? There was
only one other.”
"Not my
mother’s.”
"Oh, no, that
one was held at the Plaza. No, you’ve seen the pictures of your
grandparents’ wedding. Mother’s dress was so beautiful.” She brightened. "We
should find it, Shelly. Maybe it would fit Crystal.”
"Even if it did,
don’t you think it might bode ill? That marriage was relatively short. Your
parents both died so young.”
"Don’t tell me
that my skeptical Shelly has a superstitious streak.”
"Of course not.
Crystal wouldn’t wear it, anyway. She’ll go for a designer dress, and she’ll
look fabulous in it. But this would hardly be the place to show it off, so I
can’t see...” With no reaction from her aunt, Rochelle
puzzled over the situation. "Have you spoken to her lately?”
"I can’t
remember when I last heard from her. And when your memory gets to be as bad as
mine, you’ll be relieved of the burden of keeping score.” Aunt Meg offered a
sympathetic smile. "I’m not being judgmental, Shelly. It’s just that I went
through all this with my sister. You are who you are, and—”
"She is who she
is, I know. It’s fine with me. I just can’t believe she’ll go through with it,
and I don’t want us to be disappointed. She’ll have us all psyched for
November, and then she’ll decide on Paris in the spring.”
"But she’s
marrying a Minnesota boy, and he has family close by. As for Crystal, we’re the
only family she has besides little Garth, and I haven’t seen him since he was a
tot. She knows I don’t get out much anymore.”
Rochelle let the
assumption pass unanswered. The call she hadn’t been able to complete had been
her dutiful attempt to let Crystal know that Aunt Meg was in the hospital.
She’d hoped her sister would come. She’d imagined a happy reunion, the delight
in seeing how much her nephew had grown, the sweet surprise for a sick woman.
"It would be fun
to have a wedding here,” Rochelle allowed softly.
"I’ve always
hoped we’d have yours in the gardens.”
Rochelle laughed
reflexively, the way she always did when the subject of men, marriage, or
maiden aunts came up. "Let’s practice on Crystal’s. Did she give us a phone
number?”
"Read the
letter,” Meg urged, pressing the envelope into her hand. "We can probably find
out from the address.”
"I’ll take care
of that. You need your rest now. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”
"I do,” Meg remembered
happily. She was to be the grand marshal of the town’s Labor Day parade. "And
then Ariel’s group will be coming back. They’re all set to partake in a
thorough purification of Rosewood whenever I get it organized.”
"If you go
chasing the spirits out of their haunts, we’ll have nothing to draw the
creative retreaters to our chilly climes.”
"It’s not the
spirits’ side we’re purifying. It’s ours. I think I’ll ask Birch Trueblood to
take charge of the ceremony. You remember him, don’t you?”
Rochelle stiffened.
Her aunt knew perfectly well what she remembered about Birch Trueblood. She’d
made a fool of herself every time she ran into the Ojibwe medicine man. As a
teenager and beyond, she had followed Margaret Bruner around in her quest to
show her interest in and appreciation for the small band of American Indians
who, through generations of challenge, had managed to hang on to a tiny piece
of the Mille Lacs shoreline.
The twinkle in
Aunt Meg’s eyes drew Rochelle’s obligatory groan. Oh, yes, she certainly remembered
the way Birch’s easy smile made her insides turn somersaults.
Oh, this was
perfect. With Sinclair Lewis’s birthplace just down the road, wasn’t
purification from the Native American Elmer Gantry just what she needed?
