A Bend in the Road (12 page)

So tell me,”
Miles said to Sarah as they left Sarah’s building later that night, “what do
you miss most about the big city?”

“Galleries, the
museums, concerts. Restaurants that are open past nine o’clock.”

Miles laughed.
“But what do you miss the most?”

Sarah looped her arm
through his. “I miss the bistros. You know—little cafés where I could sit and
sip my tea while I read the Sunday paper. It was enjoyable to be able to do
that in the middle of downtown. It was like a little oasis somehow, because
everyone who passed you on the street always looked like they were rushing
somewhere.”

They walked in
silence for a few moments.

“You know, you
can do that here, too,” Miles finally offered.

“Really?”

“Sure. There’s a
place like that right over there on Broad Street.”

“I’ve never seen
it.”

“Well, it’s not
exactly a bistro.”

“What is it,
then?”

He shrugged.
“It’s a gas station, but it’s got a nice bench out front, and I’m sure if you
brought in your own teabag, they’d be able to scrounge up a cup of hot water
for you.”

She giggled.
“Sounds enticing.”

As they crossed
the street, they fell in behind a group of people who were obviously part of
the festivities. Dressed in period clothing, they looked as if they’d just
stepped out of the eighteenth century—thick, heavy skirts on the women, black
pants and high boots for the men, high collars, wide-brimmed hats.  At the corner they broke into two separate
groups, heading in opposite directions. Miles and Sarah followed the smaller
group.  “You’ve always lived here,
right?” Sarah asked.

“Except for the
years I went to college.”

“Didn’t you ever
want to move away? To experience something new?”

“Like bistros?”

She nudged him
playfully with her elbow. “No, not just that. Cities have a vibrancy, a sense
of excitement that you can’t find in a small town.” “I don’t doubt it. But to
be honest, I’ve never been interested in things like that. I don’t need those
things to make me happy. A nice quiet place to unwind at the end of the day,
beautiful views, a few good friends. What else is there?” “What was it like
growing up here?”

“Did you ever
seeThe Andy Griffith Show ? Mayberry?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it was
kind of like that. New Bern wasn’t quite so small, of course, but it had that
small-town feel, you know? Where things seemed safe? I remember that when I was
little—seven or eight—and I used to head out with my friends to go fishing or
exploring or just out to play and I’d be gone until supper. And my parents
wouldn’t worry at all, because they didn’t have to. Other times, we’d camp out
down by the river all night long and the thought that something bad might
happen to us never entered our minds. It’s a wonderful way to grow up, and I’d
like Jonah to have the chance to grow up that way, too.” “You’d let Jonah camp
out by the river all night?”

“Not a chance,”
he said. “Things have changed, even in little New Bern.” As they reached the
corner, a car rolled to a stop beside them. Just down the street, clusters of
people strolled up and down the walks of various homes.  “We’re friends, right?” Miles asked.

“I’d like to
think so.”

“Do you mind if I
ask you a question?”

“I guess it
depends on the question.”

“What was your
ex-husband like?”

She glanced
toward him in surprise. “My ex-husband?” “I’ve been wondering about that.
You’ve never mentioned him in all the time we’ve talked.”

Sarah said
nothing, suddenly intent on the sidewalk in front of her.  “If you’d rather not answer, you don’t have
to,” Miles offered. “I’m sure it wouldn’t change my impression of him, anyway.”

“And what
impression is that?”

“I don’t like
him.”

Sarah laughed.
“Why do you say that?”

“Because you
don’t like him.”

“You’re pretty
perceptive.”

“That’s why I’m
in law enforcement.” He tapped his temple and winked at her. “I can spot clues
that ordinary people overlook.”

She smiled,
giving his arm an extra squeeze. “All right . . . my ex-husband. His name was
Michael King and we met right after he finished his MBA. We were married for
three years. He was rich, well educated, and good-looking . . .” She ticked
those off, one right after the other, and when she paused, Miles nodded.  “Mmm . . . I can see why you don’t like the
guy.”

“You didn’t let
me finish.”

“There’s more?”

“Do you want to
hear this?”

“I’m sorry. Go
on.”

She hesitated
before finally going on.

“Well, for the
first couple of years, we were happy. At least, I was. We had a beautiful
apartment, we spent all of our free time together, and I thought I knew who he
was. But I didn’t. Not really, anyway. In the end, we were arguing all the
time, we hardly talked at all, and . . . and it just didn’t work out,” she
finished quickly.

“Just like that?”
he asked.

“Just like that,”
she said.

“Do you ever see
him anymore?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I’m sorry I
brought it up,” he said.

“Don’t be. I’m
better off without him.”

“So when did you
know it was over?”

“When he handed
me the divorce papers.”

“You had no idea
they were coming?”

“No.”

“I knew I didn’t
like him.” He also knew she hadn’t told him everything.  She smiled appreciatively. “Maybe that’s why
we get along so well. We see eye to eye on things.”

“Except, of
course, about the wonders of small-town living, right?”

“I never said I
didn’t like it here.”

“But could you
see yourself staying in a place like this?”

“You mean
forever?”

“C’mon, you have
to admit it’s nice.”

“It is. I’ve
already said that.”

“But it’s not for
you? In the long run, I mean?”

“I guess that
depends.”

“On what?”

She smiled at
him. “On what my reason for staying would be.” Staring at her, he couldn’t help
but imagine that her words were either an invitation or a promise.

• • •

The moon began
its slow evening arc upward, glowing yellow and then orange as it crested the
weathered roofline of the Travis-Banner home, their first stop on the ghost
walk. The house was an ancient two-story Victorian with wide, wraparound
porches desperately in need of painting. On the porch, a small crowd had
gathered as two women, dressed as witches, stood around a large pot, serving
apple cider and pretending to conjure up the first owner of the house, a man
who’d supposedly been beheaded in a logging accident. The front door of the
home was open; from inside came faint sounds of a carnival funhouse: terrified
shrieks and creaking doors, strange thumps and cackling laughter. Suddenly the
two witches dropped their heads, the lights went out on the porch, and a
headless ghost made a dramatic appearance in the foyer behind them—a blackened
shape dressed in a cape with arms extended and bones where hands should have
been. One woman yelped as she dropped her cup of cider on the porch. Sarah
moved instinctively toward Miles, half turning toward him as she reached for
his arm with a grip that surprised him. Up close, her hair looked soft, and
though it was a different color from Missy’s, he was reminded of what it had
felt like to comb through Missy’s hair with his fingers as they lay together in
the evenings.  A minute later, at the
muttered incantations of the witches, the ghost vanished and the lights came
back on. Amid nervous laughter, the audience dispersed.  Over the next couple of hours, Miles and
Sarah visited a number of houses. They were invited inside for a quick tour of
some; in others they stood in the foyer or were entertained in the garden with
stories about the history of the home. 
Miles had taken this tour before, and as they strolled from home to
home, he suggested places of particular interest and regaled her with stories
about homes that weren’t part of the ghost walk this year.

They drifted
along the cracked cement sidewalks, murmuring to each other, savoring the
evening. In time, the crowds began to thin and some of the homes began to close
up for the night. When Sarah asked if he was ready for dinner, Miles shook his
head.

“There’s one
more stop,” he said.

He led her down
the street, holding her hand, gently brushing his thumb against it. From one of
the towering hickory trees, an owl called out as they passed, then grew silent
again. Up ahead, a group of people dressed as ghosts were piling into a station
wagon. At the corner, Miles pointed toward a large, two-story home, this one
devoid of the crowds she’d come to expect. The windows were absolutely black,
as if shuttered from the interior. Instead, the only light was provided by a
dozen candles lining the porch railings and a small wooden bench near the front
door. Beside the bench sat an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a blanket
draped over her legs. In the eerie light, she looked almost like a mannequin;
her hair was white and thinning, her body frail and brittle. Her skin looked
translucent in the flickering glow of candles, and her face was lined deeply,
like the cracked glaze of an old china cup. Miles and Sarah seated themselves
on the porch swing as the elderly woman studied them.  “Hello, Miss Harkins,” Miles said slowly, “did you have a good
crowd tonight?” “Same as usual,” Miss Harkins answered. Her voice was raspy,
like that of a lifetime smoker. “You know how it goes.” She squinted at Miles,
as if trying to make him out from a distance. “So you’ve come to hear the story
of Harris and Kathryn Presser, have you?”

“I thought she
should hear it,” Miles answered solemnly. 
For a moment, Miss Harkins’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and she reached for
the cup of tea that sat beside her.

Miles slipped
his arm over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her close. Sarah felt herself relax
beneath his touch.

“You’ll like
this,” Miles whispered. His breath on her ear ran a current under her skin.

I already do, she
thought to herself.

Miss Harkins set
the cup of tea aside. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

There are ghosts
and there is love,

And both are
present here,

To those who
listen, this tale will tell

The truth of love
and if it’s near.

Sarah stole a quick
peek at Miles.

“Harris
Presser,” Miss Harkins announced, “had been born in 1843 to owners of a small
candle-making shop in downtown New Bern. Like many young men of the period,
Harris wanted to serve for the Confederacy when the War of Southern
Independence began. Because he was an only son, however, both his mother and
father begged him not to go. In listening to their wishes, Harris Presser
irrevocably sealed his fate.”

Here, Miss
Harkins paused and looked at them.

“He fell in
love,” she said softly.

For a second,
Sarah wondered if Miss Harkins was also referring to them. Miss Harkins’s
eyebrows rose slightly, as if she were reading Sarah’s thoughts, and Sarah
glanced away.

“Kathryn Purdy
was only seventeen, and like Harris, she was also an only child.  Her parents owned both the hotel and the logging
mill, and were the wealthiest family in town. They didn’t associate with the
Pressers, but both families were among those that stayed in town after New Bern
fell to Union forces in 1862.  Despite
the war and the occupation, Harris and Kathryn began meeting by the Neuse River
on early summer evenings, just to talk, and eventually Kathryn’s parents found
out. They were angry and forbade their daughter to see Harris anymore, since
the Pressers were regarded as commoners, but it had the effect of binding the
young couple even closer together. But it wasn’t easy for them to see each
other. In time, they devised a plan, in order to escape the watchful eyes of
Kathryn’s parents. Harris would stand in his parents’ candle shop down the
street, watching for the signal. If her parents were asleep, Kathryn would put
a lighted candle on the sill, and Harris would sneak over. He would climb the
massive oak tree right outside her window and help her down. In this way, they
met as often as they could, and as the months passed, they fell deeper and
deeper in love.”

Miss Harkins
took another sip of her tea, then narrowed her eyes slightly. Her voice took on
a more ominous tone.

“By now, the
Union forces were tightening their grip on the South—the news from Virginia was
grim, and there were rumors that General Lee was going to swing down with his
army from northern Virginia and try to retake eastern North Carolina for the
Confederacy. A curfew was instituted and anyone caught outside in the evening,
especially young men, was likely to be shot. Unable now to meet with Kathryn,
Harris contrived to work late in his parents’ shop, lighting his own candle in
the store window so that Kathryn would know he was longing to see her. This
went on for weeks, until one day, he smuggled a note to Kathryn through a
sympathetic preacher, asking her to elope with him. If her answer was yes, she
was supposed to put two candles in the window—one that said she agreed, and the
second as a signal for when it was safe for him to come and get her.  That night, the two candles were lit, and
despite all the odds, they were married that night under a full moon, by the
same sympathetic preacher who’d delivered the note. All of them had risked
their lives for love.  “But,
unfortunately, Kathryn’s parents discovered another secret letter that Harris
had written. Enraged, they confronted Kathryn with what they knew.  Kathryn defiantly told them that there was
nothing they could do. Sadly, she was only partly right.