Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (34 page)

They say everyone loves one more than the other. I’ve found that to be true. My heart lies in Charleston, but to all the people
who have never given Savannah even the chance to steal theirs, I would say they are missing out.

I cross the bridge into the city, ignoring the oil rigs and industry polluting the shore, choosing instead to focus on the beauty of the historic district. It almost hurts me physically to think how much more amazing this place would be if the people in charge had stopped drinking long enough to start
restoration and preservation efforts a hundred years earlier.

The parking lot in front of Clary’s, a local diner with killer fries, is only half-f. I go inside and sit alone at the counter, deciding it would be best to take a few minutes, at least, to decide what exactly I’m going to say to the Ravens.
 

They might not be home, but they run a historical tour company down by the river so I’ll
be able to find them either way. Interesting, that they’re enamored enough with local history to start a business like that. Hopefully it means Mr. Raven—the Drayton descendant—will know at least a little bit about his own history.

My club sandwich, fries, and root beer look and smell delicious, but I hardly taste them. By the time the bill is paid, at least I have a plan of action, deciding
to go with the half-truth that I’m working as an archivist for the Draytons and want to know more about how their line came to be.

I could have made up something totally unrelated, then asked to use the bathroom and stolen some hair out of the drain—which is probably still how I’m going to get what I need from them—but part of me wants to know how this happened. Who the line’s patriarch is, why
the family kept it a secret.
 

My throat burns at the subtle reminder that I can’t ask Beau. Even if he would tell me, even though he cares enough to send me here, he doesn’t owe me anything more.

It’s a short, two-block walk to their house, which is historic and immense, settled inside a black wrought iron gate. A garden lines the redbrick path to the door, bright with beautiful colors and lush
greenery that must cost a fortune to maintain. I guess even illegitimate Draytons have the moneymaking gene. Sheesh.

There’s no reason anyone should be home, but this is the easiest place to get what I came here for, so I try anyway. A man surprises me by opening the door before I can even ring the bell, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. “I saw you coming up the walk. What can I do for
you?”

“Mr. Raven?”

“Yes.” He peers at me over his wire rims, more interested now that I know his name. He’s handsome, not unlike Brick and Beau, but his coloring is different.

“My name is Graciela Harper. I’ve been working on updating the archives at Drayton Hall, outside Charleston, and your family’s name came up. I wanted to make sure I had all the correct information before moving forward.”

I’m not sure which part of my statement startles him, but based on the step he takes back into the foyer, the stunned look, it was something. He lets me inside, though, so step one accomplished.

We go into a large, modern kitchen, and he motions to one of the stools at a granite island. I sit, relieved to have gotten this far.

“Would you like something to drink? I just put a kettle on if you
like tea.”

“That would be great.”

“Green or Chai?”

“I’ll have a green.”

He puts two dainty white cups and saucers on the counter and scoops fancy loose leaves into two metal steepers, then sets them in the cups. “What would you like to know?”

“I understand that you’re descended from Charlotta Drayton, who never married and, based on every official record I’ve found, never had children.” I
pause, rearranging my features to convey embarrassment. “I could ask Cordelia or the head archivist, but they never mentioned anything. I don’t want to get fired, but I do want to do my job.”

“Ah. That makes more sense. When you first arrived I thought the family intended to include my line in the display or official history, but you’re just curious.”

I spread my hands. “I’m just curious.”

He pours hot water from a ceramic kettle into the cups, then returns it to the stove. I take a proffered mug, blowing on the steam while I wait to see whether he’s going to answer or tell me to take a long walk off a short pier.

“You might regret that, because once I start talking genealogy it’s hard to get me to stop.” He winks. “I think my wife has been tempted to divorce me at times because
of it.”

“I’m all ears.”

Mr. Raven puts his forearms on the opposite side of the island and leans on them, getting as comfortable as a standing person can get. The stools on this side are hard and hurt my back, but I’m not moving.

“Charlotta Drayton had an illicit affair as a young girl with one of the slave boys on the plantation who was around her age. He’d always been favored by the family,
allowed to study and learn and work in the house instead of the fields, so they kind of grew up together.”

“Why?”

“No one knows. It could be that he was bright.” He shrugs. “Some people had their suspicions that he was an illegitimate son of Charles Henry’s, but I tend not to believe that. There’s nothing that would lead anyone to believe he was one of those sorts of plantation owners, and he
kept awfully busy with his medical practice, as well.”

“Interesting. So Charlotta and this boy…what’s his name?”

“James.”

“James. They fell in love?”

“They did. It was not allowed, of course, and her mother and siblings were shocked and devastated when she became pregnant. It’s the reason she never married, officially. Damaged goods and all that.”

I purse my lips, declining to comment on
nineteenth-century morality. Or how it’s still alive and well in Heron Creek, and probably in Savannah, too. “What happened to James?”

“He was given his freedom by the lady of the house, on the condition he take the child and never return. He never did, as far as we know, but Charlotta never gave up.” He smiles. “All kinds of stories, probably concocted by romantics, about their ghosts being
seen together around the property.”

“Their child was a girl.”

“Yes. That’s why we don’t carry the Drayton name, and why my skin gets a little darker in the summer sun than yours might.”

“It’s a nice story.” I smile, because it’s true. “Not nice for Charlotta, I mean, but in a sweeping, romantic, historical sense. It’s the kind of thing people write into screenplays.”

“I agree entirely, especially
since it resulted in my existence.”

“The Draytons know about you, obviously. Have you ever tried to include your family in their legal history?”

He shakes his head. “There’s no proof aside from genetics, and that would require one of the family members offering their DNA for testing. They have Charlotta’s journals, which are the only real proof, and they’d burn them before allowing it out.”

Interesting. Those must be well hidden, because Jenna didn’t mention them.

“What about James? He must have had something…”

“Oral histories, is all. Tradition. It’s true, the Draytons have confirmed it, but no one else would believe us.”

“Why would they confirm that for you?” It doesn’t sound like something Cordelia would agree to, not at all.

“It was several generations ago, when family meant
more than legacy and money, I’m afraid.”

I resist the urge to look around the house, a silent, opulent display of Mr. Raven’s own wealth. It’s time to go. I’ve learned what I came here to learn. “Thank you for trusting me with all this, Mr. Raven. You’ve been really helpful.”

“Zachary, please.”

“Zachary.” I give him my best diminutive smile. “Could I use your restroom before I get out of your
hair?”

“Of course. Down the hall and to your right.”

“Thanks.”

He picks up his phone as I get off the stool and head out of the kitchen, which will hopefully work to my advantage. The downstairs bathroom is surely for guests, which means it won’t have the kind of stuff I’m looking to pick up. I sneak up the steps, instead, already sweating under my arms. There won’t be a good way to explain
this one if he catches me, but it’s not like he’ll be the first person to think I’m a snooping weirdo. That’s pretty much the prevailing opinion these days.

There’s a hallway bathroom next to a bedroom that smells like it belongs to a teenaged boy. I dash inside and do the fastest but grossest thing possible: stick my finger down the shower drain. Two involuntary gags later, I come up with a
glob of hair mixed with dried chunks from the edge of a shampoo or body wash bottle.
 

I stick it into the plastic baggie I remembered to bring, seal it, purposefully avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. The last thing I need in my head is the memory of what I looked like being the biggest asshole ever.

Zachary Raven waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, eyebrows raised the way they
were when he answered the door. This time, I don’t wait for the question.

“I, uh, can’t pee in a ground-floor bathroom. It’s too weird, the pipes underground.” I force a silly giggle. “I have a problem.”

“Clearly.” He looks as though he’s not sure whether to call the police or a psychiatrist.
 

I know because I’ve seen it more than a few times in my life.

“I’ll go now. Thank you again.”
 

He walks behind me to the front door. I hold my breath the entire time, praying he’s going to let me go without accusations, but he takes it all in stride. It’s not like I was gone long enough to steal anything—at least, not anything he would consider valuable—and he didn’t lose anything except twenty minutes of his time and a cup of tea.

And a few strands of hair that could doom his family, but
he doesn’t know about that.

Yet.

I get back to my car, not quite knowing how I got there. All the way back to Heron Creek, all I can think about is that bundle of grossness in my purse. What it could do. How it might change the world, not only in Charleston but beyond.
 

Philosophers have put forth the greater-good theory for hundreds of years, one that says the right thing to do is whatever
will result in the most amount of good for the most people. Which is to say, if someone had a gun pointed at your child and their finger on a bomb that would wipe out Germany, and asked you to choose who to shoot, you should choose your child’s death.

It’s a theory that makes ethical sense, but one that runs contrary to human nature. We’re tribal. We might
know
that the life of our child doesn’t
mean more than millions of others, but we don’t
feel
that way.

There’s no way for me to know how the ripples from this event will erode the future. Will Jack living do more good? Will the fall of the Drayton family from prominence and grace, if that’s what really happens, destroy things I can’t fathom?

I don’t know. I don’t know what the right thing is, but I feel it. I have to protect my tribe,
no matter what it means.
 

There are twelve hours left before Mama Lottie’s deadline. I have a little more information now. There’s a desperate, foolish part of me that hopes it might be long enough to come up with a way to convince her that vengeance isn’t the answer, after all.

The plan to bury myself in work on my computer goes down the drain when I come home to Beau sitting alone on the
front porch swing. The sight of him punches me in the stomach, makes it hard to breathe and think and walk. There’s only one reason he could be here.
 

I know it. I don’t want to face it, but I don’t have a choice.

“Hey,” I whisper from the bottom step.

“Hi.” He runs a hand through his hair. By the looks of it, this isn’t the first time. Light brown chunks stick up this way and that, very un-Beau-like
in its disarray.
 

Neither of us says anything else. He’s here to see me so it seems as though he should be the one to talk, but in the end I’m the one who cracks. It’s the weight of the moment. It’s pressing in on me like a thousand tons of dirt, and the only way one of those magic-sniffing dogs is going to find me is if I keep yelling.

“Are you here to break up with me?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

My heart dissolves. Floats away. I’m losing something I didn’t know I wanted. Could have guessed existed, but now that it’s been mine, no matter for how short of a time, the idea of letting it go rips me apart.

“Maybe…” I repeat.

“I can’t believe you would lie to me, Gracie. After everything. All the talks, all the times I proved you could tell me anything and I’d stay right by your side. I
just…I don’t know how to get past it. How to stop feeling betrayed.”

“And I’m helping the ghost of a witch put a curse on your family.”

“The funny thing is, that part is secondary. For me.” His troubled gaze meets mine, hangs on. What hurts the most is how hard this is for him, too.

This is what it looks like when two people part while they’re still in love. This is what it feels like to let
go of your heart while it’s still beating.

I put out my hand, grab on to one of the pillars holding up the porch. Pray it can do the same for me. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you, you’re right. I guess I have some issues in that department. They’re not yours. You’ve been perfect.”

“Not perfect, but I have tried. I’ve done everything I could think of to put you at ease.”

Something inside
me snaps. He’s putting this all on me, and maybe most of it’s my fault, but it’s not entirely fair.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you imagined in your head. I’m sorry that I can’t shift that fast, from breaking off an engagement with a controlling, manipulative, cheating man less than six months ago to a girl who easily trusts someone new.” Tears fill my eyes, falling no matter how hard I blink.
“I can’t. I’m not there, Beau. Not to a place where I can expect you to be good, instead of expect to be berated and judged, made to feel unworthy. I’m sorry.”

“Gracie…”