Ashes to Ashes (2 page)

I haven't. I know exactly how to get a rush.

 

The dock on the north side of Battery Park is long and narrow, but it widens at the far end as it juts out over the water. I start at the beginning of the pier, and though I'll want to steer around three storage structures built on the north side, I have at least three hundred feet to the other end, plenty of time to get up to sixty and then spin to a stop—I'm guessing I'll need about a hundred feet to brake. I half wish I'd called Carson and asked her to bring her camera for this one—she's always up for a thrill. But I want to break in the BMW on my own.

I glance in the rearview mirror as I remove the clip holding my waves back in a ponytail. A mess of dark blond hair falls over my forehead, frizzy from the humidity of Charleston in June. Stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, I see that my face is flushed with excitement, blue eyes shining with anticipation at what I'm about to do. “You only live once,” I say to myself just before I rocket off the clutch and push the gas pedal to the floor with my bright yellow Havaianas. Dad hates it when I drive in flip-flops.

The car takes off with effortless determination, like it knows what I'm doing, like it's been waiting for me to let it run. I get closer and closer to the edge, and I see the point where I need to turn the wheel, ease off the gas, and start to brake so that I don't plunge into the Atlantic.

I let my foot linger for a split second longer than I should. As I release the accelerator, I jerk the wheel to the right, and the car responds immediately. I spin around the wide end of the dock, blue sky flashing abstractly in front of me. I wonder what it would feel like to hit the water in a violent splash.

And then, it stops. Everything is quiet for one perfect moment, and I let out a combined laugh-scream, a celebratory rebel yell at my latest stunt. This feeling—this nervous, excited, scared, happy, blissful, terrified feeling—is what I live for.

This and Nick.

Two

IT'S A LITTLE AFTER NOON
when I pull up into Carson's driveway and honk twice. Dad said no cruising, but one little exception can't hurt. Besides, I'm on a mission of mercy.

She opens her front door, peers out, and shrieks excitedly. With her vintage straw bag flung over her shoulder, she rushes out and quickly paces around the car, studying it from every angle.

“You're so lucky!” she says as she finally opens the passenger door and slides in.

“I know,” I say, patting the steering wheel.

“No, I mean to have me as a BFF.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out what looks like a bouquet of withered leaves.

“Sage,” she explains, responding to my questioning glance. “For cleansing.”

I cock an eyebrow.

“Oh, Clueless Callie,” she says breezily, running her fingers through the leaves. “You have to burn this in a new space to clear out any bad juju.”

Juju
, which I'm not even sure is a real word, is Carson's thing. She claims she can feel the vibes around her—good and bad.

“You're not thinking of doing that in my car,” I say.

“Absolutely!”

“No way! Dad is too into the new-car smell—he'd die if we covered it up with burned herbs.”

Carson pouts. “Is he still mad about last year when I burned those pine needles in his home office?”

I nod. “He said it smelled like a hippie had set up camp in there.”

“Your dad just doesn't know the dangers of the dark side.”

“He only believes in what he can see.”

“That scares me,” says Carson. “Because there's a lot we can't see.” She frowns and throws the leaf bouquet back in her bag. I wonder what else is in there, besides the deck of tarot cards and the Magic 8 Ball key chain I know she always carries. She believes in being prepared for any unnatural emergency—not that we've ever encountered one, or ever will.

I back out of her driveway. “I dreamed about Mama last night.” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't. Her face softens in sympathy.

After Mama died, for that first year or so, Carson used to insist that she felt Mama's presence. It was the start of her obsession with ghosts, the reason why every independent project she does at school is based on some haunting legend or ghoulish mystery—and Charleston is full of them. When you live in a hazy, hot place with hanging moss and sweet-smelling flowers and thick, humid air that almost feels like a living creature, it's easy to see ghosts everywhere you turn.

We were young, just in first grade, and the adults around us dismissed Carson's visions of Mama as wishful thinking. I did, too, because my dad told me Carson talked nonsense.
It is nonsense,
I think. But she knew how hard it was for me when Mama died —the way she died—and Carson helped me through my grief, she didn't let me wallow, and I know she is always just trying to make me feel better.

I consider lowering the top, letting the wind have its way with my hair, to distract me from Carson's sympathy, but I can tell she just straightened her glossy brown curls. “It's nice to dream about her,” I say, making my voice upbeat. “Memories are good to have.”

“So are guardian angels.”

Although I'm wearing sunglasses, she still manages to catch my eye roll. She knows I don't really believe she ever felt my mom's ghost. She was just pretending.

“Who else are we picking up?” she asks.

“No one.”

“Come on. You can't waste this sweet ride on just the two of us.”

It's not that I'm not psyched about the car; it's just that I'm not the share-everything-with-everyone-I-know type. People at school think I'm antisocial, but Carson defends me, because that's not true. She's popular, she's friends with a gazillion people, she gets me invited to parties and keeps me in the loop. I appreciate all that, because it seems like what I'm supposed to be doing. You know, going to football games and dances and after-parties. I make appearances, I smile and nod at people, but they don't thrill me. I'm more into . . . experiences. Like climbing rocks at Kings Mountain State Park without ropes, or racing my car along the docks. High school just feels like a waiting room for something more real.

“It's not wasted. We're going to see Nick.”

“Thought he was doing that Habitat for Humanity thing today.”

“He is, but he has to eat.” I point over my shoulder to the backseat.

Twisting around, she spies the two wicker baskets resting there. “Ah, the way to a guy's heart . . .”

I laugh. “I already own his heart, completely.”

“Calpurnia McPhee,” Carson says in a chiding voice.

“Carson Jenkins,” I reply.

“You've got a secret.” She reaches back—

“What
ever
are you talking about?” I ask. “You know I'm crazy about Nick. That's no secret.”

She straightens. “I'm not talking about your amazing love life.” Smiling, she holds up a hair clip before pinning back her own shiny brown blowout in a grand gesture. “You've already been for a joyride.”

I groan. I tossed the clip back there after my pier adventure—to make a statement, to put an exclamation mark on the end of my stunt.

“Where'd you go?” she asks.

“To the harbor,” I mumble. There's no use holding out on her now.

“You
didn't.
Please don't tell me you went out on the pier.”

I give her a casual shrug that's in direct contrast to my victorious smile. I've talked about racing on the pier, but I never had the right set of wheels for it until now.

“Not without my camera!” she shouts, and rifles through her bag until she locates her phone and turns on the camera.

“Really?” I ask. “Now?”

“No better time,” she says. “The open road is the perfect backdrop.”

She films me while I tell her how I handled the car like a NASCAR driver, and how I'm pretty sure I got up to sixty miles per hour in under five seconds.

Hearing a click, I know that she hit the Stop button. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her admiration. I bask in it. I do things she'd never dream of doing.

“You weren't afraid you'd get caught?” she asks.

“It was pretty early. It was just me and the spirits of the dreaded pirates.”

“Don't say that!” She turns all serious on me.

“The historic district was a ghost town,” I say, lowering my voice for effect. “Not a soul in sight. Not even Stede Bonnet.”

I let out a ghoulish laugh and Carson swats my arm. “Stop it,” she says in a hushed whisper. “Please tell me you held your breath when you went by the oaks.”

A large gray cloud blocks the sun, and she peers through the windshield up at the sky. She's probably thinking that my joking about Charleston's storied ghost history has somehow caused this momentary shadow.

“Cars,” I say. “It's a legend.”

“Callie, it's
bad luck
not to
.
”

I love my best friend, but this is a topic we don't see eye to eye on. I'm tired of the ghosts of the Old Slave Mart, the haunted house at 131 Church Street, the paranormal activity at the Battery Carriage House. It's all just old-people spook talk. Something to sell the tourists on the Lowcountry Ghost Walk.

Carson sighs. “You're so cynical.”

“And you're gullible!” Carson imagines things. There is absolutely no such thing as ghosts. There can't be. I can't believe in them.

If I did, I wouldn't be able to explain why Carson somehow felt Mama's presence but I didn't. She told me that Mama sat with her, in her room, while she played with her dollhouse. Carson was compelled to tell me and my father that Mama was okay. But if ghosts were real,
I'd
have sensed her, haunting or hovering or giving me a sign that she's watching over me and Dad. I knew my mother for just six short years, but I know that she loved us. . . . I saw how much in her last breath. I know she'd visit us if she could—in whatever form.

Then, because I don't want this kind of awkwardness between us, I apologize. “Sorry I snapped.”

“I know you didn't mean it.”

Well, I did, but pointing that out will only put us into a dizzying circle. She always forgives me when I get moody. That's what you do for your best friend whose mother died.

Carson and I have been together our whole lives. When her parents moved to town, her mom was pregnant with her and Mama was pregnant with me. Carson's mom always tells the story of how they conspired to name their daughters after literary figures—Carson after novelist Carson McCullers, and me after the housekeeper in
To Kill a Mockingbird.
But if anyone besides Carson or Nick called me by my full name, I'd punch them. I'm more of a Callie than a Calpurnia. And to my dad, and to Mama once upon a time, I'm Callie May.

I turn in to a neighborhood that's seen better days. It's part of a renovation project, replacing crumbling structures with sturdier ones. I pull to a stop near a yard where the partial frame of a house has been erected. Several guys and a couple of girls are hard at work: hammering, sawing, clearing, carting. I'm always amazed by how organized they are and how quickly they can build a house. This is the third one that Nick has worked on.

“Thank goodness for the sweltering summer heat,” Carson says. “It
is
our friend.”

Laughing, I open the door and step out. I know she's appreciative of the scenery. Most of the guys have opted to go shirtless, and their bared torsos are glistening with sweat. One of them is Nick. I take a moment to appreciate the way his muscles bunch as he saws a plank resting between sawhorses. His concentration is intense.

A guy walks by, says something to Nick as he passes. Nick replies and the guy laughs.

Nick is always making people laugh. Even though he's working hard, he's relaxed here, obviously enjoying what he's doing. After the shorter end of the plank drops to the ground, he swipes the back of his hand across his brow as he straightens.

I know the exact moment when he spots me. He grins widely, sets aside the saw, and heads over. To my chagrin, he snatches a T-shirt that is one of several draped over a bush and works his way into it without breaking his stride.

“Hey, you!” he says, much more awake than he was the last time I saw him. His brown eyes sparkling with merriment, he jerks his head toward the car. “What's this?”

“Remember the deal I made with my dad?”

“You're kidding.” His bristled jaw drops. “I figured he'd get you an old clunker that I'd have to spend way too much time repairing.”

“Nope.” I run my hand over the hood in a slow, sensual manner, the way I'd like to run my hand over his chest, shoulders, and back.

“Sweet. Hey, Carson,” he says.

“About time. I was wondering if you were even going to notice me.”

He gives her a wink and a grin. “A guy has to have priorities.”

He turns his attention back to me, and it's like being hit with a spotlight. I love the way he gives me his entire focus. “What are you up to?”

“Other than showing off the Beemer”—I step up to him and trace my fingers over his biceps—“I could not possibly go the rest of the day without seeing you again. Tonight is too far away. I brought some lunch. Appetizer first.”

I rise up on my toes and give him a big, energetic kiss. His hands come up to cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair.

Carson clears her throat. “Get a room, y'all,” she says, and then she wanders over to say hi to some of the guys she knows. And no doubt burn her sage around the house so the area is cleansed for the family who'll be moving in once it's finished.

“Don't mind her,” I whisper into his ear.

“Her and a couple of dozen guys.”

I draw back to see Nick blushing. I can't help but wonder for the thousandth time how I ended up getting this lucky, with a boyfriend who's sweet enough to blush at me, even after a year.

“Come on, Fisher!” one of the guys calls out. “We have work to do.”

“I've got food!” he yells back. Then he arches a brow. “You did bring enough for everyone, right?”

“Of course.”

He pushes the front seat forward and grabs the baskets. I follow Nick to where he was working, and he sets the baskets on the plank of wood. The
thunk
serves as a dinner bell. Suddenly everyone is swarming over, grabbing pieces of chicken, and standing around eating. No plates, no napkins. I'm not sure four KFC buckets are going to be enough.

“Hey, Callie, you ever decide to dump this loser, give me a call,” Michael Grayson jokes before biting into his already half-devoured drumstick.

“It'll never happen.” I wrap my arm around Nick's and snuggle against his side. “I'm holding on to this guy like a drowning woman with a life preserver.”

A strange expression flashes over Nick's face, like I've said something that upsets him. But it's gone so quickly that I can't be sure of what I saw.

“Callie!” Carson shrieks. “Don't invoke death in a conversation. It's bad luck.”

I don't want to go back to the weirdness from the drive, so I capitulate. “Right, sorry.”

I give Nick a secretive roll of my eyes. Grinning in understanding—he's not a big believer in Carson's theories either—he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, his knuckles skimming along my cheek. We have plans for tonight, but that seems like an eternity away. I don't want to wait.

I lean toward him and say in a low voice, “Don't suppose you can head out early.”

Regret softens his eyes as he shakes his head.

“But it's not like they're paying you or anything,” I remind him.

“I made a commitment, Callie.”