Page 57 of Dreams of Falling
My eyebrows knit together. “What happened?”
Bitty flicked ash from the end of her cigarette, then looked at me. “It’s a long story. But it seemed as if a single incident split a fault line. The one good thing about it all was that it made me stop believing in luck and making wishes.” She settled her gaze on me. “We all have to find our own way in life, Larkin. There’s no such thing as luck.”
She reached over and lifted the arrow charm hanging from my neck, the smell of nicotine thick on her fingers. “I think we’re all born with an internal compass that leads us to where we’re meant to be. And whether it’s a good place or a bad place, there’s nothing you can do about it. I think our best friends are the people whose compasses are pointed in the same direction. That’s how we find one another.”
“Like you and Margaret and Ceecee,” I said.
She didn’t answer right away, taking her time pulling a last puff on her cigarette before stabbing it out in the ashtray by her feet. “That’s the thing,” she finally said. “Sometimes it takes an earthquake to find out that your compasses are set in opposite directions.”
I wanted to ask her more, but Bennett’s truck pulled into thedriveway. I stood and looked down at Bitty, tempted to ask her to come along just so I wouldn’t have to be alone with him.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, standing and brushing off the seat of her long skirt.
I was clutching Bennett’s red shirt. “How did you know what I was thinking?” I asked, surprised and horrified to know I was so easily read.
“You’re so much like Ceecee. Always worried that people might think less of you if they knew what was really in your heart.” She waved at Bennett, then picked up her ashtray. “That boy there is a keeper. I think when you scrape away all those old thoughts and misconceptions about who you used to be, you’ll start seeing people in a whole new way.”
Without waiting for me to answer, she went inside, leaving me to fend for myself.
•••
?By the time we rumbled over the bumps and ridges of the road into Carrowmore, my nerves were on edge. Our conversation had stuck strictly around neutral topics like the weather, how the fish were biting, and how many tourists Georgetown could expect for the upcoming summer season. But the whole time Bennett wore a slight grin, the kind of grin that told the world that he knew a secret and wasn’t going to tell. It irritated me, and I could tell he knew it.
My father’s car was parked next to an olive green Jeep Cherokee in front of the house. A young woman stood several yards away from it, pointing a camera up at the crumbling façade and then taking notes on a notepad. After we parked and approached on foot, I could see that she was close to my age, with medium brown hair with bangs. Her eyes were hidden behind designer sunglasses, but her eager expression and enthusiasm were evident when she introduced herself.
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand for a shake. “I’m Meghan Black. I’m sorry Dr. Wallen-Arasi couldn’t make it today—her baby is sick, so she asked me to cover for her. I’m her research assistant.” She smiled broadly, as if to reassure us that she knew what she was talking about.“I’ve done tons of research on this house and others like it in the area, so I’m probably the best person to speak with anyway. I got here about an hour ago, and I’ve had a lot of time to look around and take pictures.” She indicated the camera hanging from a pink strap around her neck.
While she was talking, I noticed the string of pearls she wore, the polished fingernails, and that, although she wore boots, she was dressed in a cute cotton knit tunic with jean leggings that screamed J.Crew. Either a research assistant made more money than I would have thought, or her mother bought her clothes.
“Great,” I said, watching as my father and Ceecee came from around the corner of the house to join us.
“So, what can you tell us?” Bennett asked.
“Unfortunately, more bad stuff than good. As you indicated on the phone when you spoke with Dr. Wallen-Arasi, the house has been in the Darlington family since it was built.”
She looked around for corroboration, and we all nodded, the movement mimicking that of two martin gourds strung in the branches of the enormous live oak above us.
Meghan continued. “This is usually a good thing, because when a house is considered a family heirloom, it’s usually cared for consistently. According to my research, the original house was built in the mid-eighteenth century, but that was torn down for a larger house built in 1803—thankfully with a brick foundation that has given it stability over the years.” She grinned, then immediately became serious again. “But the rest of it is wood—not so good. There have been updates and changes—some made mid-nineteenth century to change it from a Federal façade to Greek Revival, and there was extensive roof repair done after Hugo in ’eighty-nine along with some shoring up of the front columns, porches, and chimneys.”
She began walking to the corner of the house so we could see where long boards had been nailed in a crisscross pattern across the chimney, bracing it against what appeared to be imminent collapse. “It really is remarkable that any of this is still here. Pure luck, really.”
We were all staring at the peeling paint, the places where bricks weremissing in the chimney, and the sagging front porch as she spoke. I noticed for the first time a partially rotted wooden swing collapsed onto the remaining floorboards, a reminder of when the house had been a home. When people had lived their lives here, had sat out on that swing looking out at the alley of oaks. Had probably rocked babies and welcomed guests. This was the house where my grandmother had died, and where my own mother had been pulled from the flames. This house was a part of who I was, and yet I knew nothing about it or the family who’d lived here for generations.
Ceecee cleared her throat. “My husband thought to restore it in the nineteen eighties, and he hired a contractor. I think they got as far as the roof and supports before they stopped.”
“Why did they stop?” Meghan asked.
Ceecee looked at the young woman, but I could tell she wasn’t really seeing her. “My husband got sick. He fought cancer for about three years and didn’t have the strength to deal with this, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Meghan said. “But doing what he did certainly helped—I doubt any of the house would be left otherwise. There’s so much wood rot and mold, and you have a very large pigeon infestation. Probably more critters, too, but I’m not going inside to see for myself on this visit—I’d need to take some safety precautions first. Although I will admit to having peered in where I could. There are still some incredible dentil moldings and cornices that look salvageable. I even saw a few strips of wallpaper clinging to the plaster.”
She faced us, like a doctor ready to divulge bad news. “Believe me, it really hurts me to say this, because I’m an old-house hugger, but I’m afraid, in the preservation world, we’d call this structure in danger of sudden catastrophic failure.”
I watched as my dad put his arm around Ceecee. “Meaning...?”
“It’s on the verge of collapse. One strong storm could be the end of it. If you’re planning on salvaging any part of it, you’d have to do it soon. Everything would need to be replaced—walls, ceilings, floors, supports. Roof. Everything. To restore would mean a complete gut and rebuild. Meaning it would be more of a replica than a restoration.” Meghan shook her head sadly. “And it wouldn’t be cheap to do it theright way.” Her voice held a warning tone to it when she said “the right way.”
Ceecee pressed her forehead into my father’s shoulder, and he continued to hold on to her.
