Page 103 of Dreams of Falling
“I know. But she won’t be mad at you—just me.” She ruffled his hair, even though he was too old for her to be doing that. “If I’m nothome by dark and she’s worried, tell her I’m with Bitty and I’ll call her as soon as I can.”
He started to say something else, but Ceecee ran down the porch steps, eager to leave before she lost her nerve.
Errant raindrops splattered on the windshield, and the wind blew hard, saturated wisps of air. For a moment it felt as if Ceecee had forgotten how to drive, how to shift the car into reverse and which pedal to use to accelerate. She focused on the mechanics, forcing herself to get them right if only to give her brain the distraction it needed from worrying about Margaret and Ivy.
Daylight clung to the sky with the kind of desperation Ceecee felt, a lost hope facing the inevitable. She flipped on the car radio, then shut if off again when news of Hazel heading toward the Carolinas filled the car.
No cars were headed north on Highway 17, though heavy traffic flowed south, away from Myrtle Beach. Ceecee gripped the steering wheel tightly and thought of the Pavilion and the Ferris wheel, imagined the force of the wind shattering them into a million pieces and scattering them to the four corners of the earth along with her memories.
She turned on her headlights to make sure she didn’t miss the turnoff from the highway, carefully navigating her father’s car over the unpaved road and through the massive iron gates that announced to any visitor that they were on Darlington property.
The large white house shone against the darkening sky, the tall white columns seeming too sturdy to capitulate to a strong wind. At first glance, it appeared the house was empty, each window dark, no sign of a car. But as Ceecee stared at the front of the house, she thought she saw a shadow pass in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the white room.
She didn’t want to go in, and had almost convinced herself that it had been a trick of the fading light, but then she saw it again, the light from a candle, moving slowly across the width of the window before disappearing from sight.
Ceecee reluctantly put the car in park, then grabbed her pocketbook from the front seat. With hesitant steps, she climbed to the porchand stood for a moment in front of the door before pushing the doorbell. She listened as the sound echoed off the marble tiles of the foyer. She waited for a few minutes, straining to hear footsteps, then pressed the bell again.
After two more tries, she turned to leave, then stopped at the sight of the porch swing. She remembered sitting there with Margaret and Bitty hundreds of times during their girlhood. All the secrets and confidences they’d shared while swinging on it, Margaret always in the middle, Bitty and Ceecee on either side, willing conspirators. All the happiness. All the good memories.
She thought she heard something and turned to face the door again. What if Ivy was in there? What if she needed her?
This time, Ceecee didn’t bother ringing the doorbell. She turned the handle and was surprised to find it unlocked. She remembered the nurse telling Boyd that Margaret had already locked up the house in preparation for leaving. For the first time, Ceecee felt a fear that had nothing to do with her worry over Margaret and Ivy.
She pushed on the door, letting it swing open into the empty foyer, the faint light from outside casting a gray glow on the polished wood of the banister, dulling the crystal pendants of the chandelier.
She glanced to her right, to the entrance to the white parlor, and recognized the glow of candlelight bouncing off the walls. She took a step forward. “Margaret? Is that you? It’s Ceecee.”
She took a few slow steps more, then stopped, her breath trapped in her throat.
“Margaret,” she finally managed.
In the silence, Ceecee drew a deep breath and walked into the room, holding her pocketbook in front of her like a shield. She paused at the threshold, trying to process what she was seeing.
Margaret wore a long, white nightgown Ceecee remembered selecting with her at Berlin’s in Charleston for her wedding night with Reggie. She held a candle in her hand and was lighting one of the three-pronged candelabras Ceecee remembered from the Darlington dining table. The second was already lit and sitting on the fireplace mantel, creating a halo of light against the white wall.
As if this were any visit and any day, Margaret didn’t turn around as she continued to light the candles. “We lose power during storms, and Ivy’s afraid of the dark. Mama always lit these candelabras during a storm. They give the most light for the longest time.”
At the mention of Ivy, Ceecee’s eyes darted around the room, settling on a small white bundle on the settee. Ivy’s eyes were closed, her head resting on a pillow, a white blanket spread on top of her, her stuffed bunny, a gift from Ceecee when she was born, tucked into the crook of her arm. Her chest rose and fell in sleep, her little rosebud mouth settled into a small smile.
Ceecee knelt on the floor beside the settee, almost groaning with relief. Gently, she pulled the blanket up over Ivy’s shoulders, then quietly walked toward Margaret. Whispering loudly, she said, “Why aren’t you in Augusta? Boyd is so worried.”
Margaret gave her a sharp glance. “Is he?”
“Of course he is. That’s why he called me.”
“He wanted us to go—I didn’t. I don’t know his aunt, and I really think we’ll be safer here. So I just pretended to agree. Carrowmore is built on a high bluff and has weathered more than its fair share of storms and floods. I know it can weather one more.” Her lips turned up in a small smile. “You don’t need to whisper, you know. Ivy won’t wake up.”
Ceecee looked back at the bundle, lying so peacefully. “What do you mean?”
“I gave her a pill—just half of one, actually. Boyd gave them to me to help me sleep. Ivy gets really scared during storms, so I thought it would help.”
“You gave it to a child?”
“Don’t be such an alarmist, Ceecee. You’re always expecting the worst. I’ve done this more than once. She’ll sleep for a long time and wake when the storm is over.”
“Why didn’t you just call me? I would have taken her.”
“Yes, well. But she’s not yours, is she? I’m her mother, and I choose how to take care of her.”
