Compulsion (21 page)

“Pale.” Pru took the yearbook and flipped through until she found a photo. “Not like this,” she said, frowning at the picture. “Of course she was older, but she was sadder, too. She was always sad. I suspect it was hard to live with all of Daddy’s could-have-beens.”

“Would you rather know what you’d missed?” Barrie tried to think how to phrase the question. “I mean, if you were your mother, would you have wanted to know that Emmett loved Twila? Or would you have rather wondered why . . .”

“Why he didn’t love
me
?” Pru finished for her.

Telltale warmth crept into Barrie’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“I think she knew all along. Everyone did.”

“Hypothetically, then. Would you want an answer even if it was going to hurt you to know it?”

Pru set the yearbook aside in the “keep” pile and closed the trunk. “I’m not sure how I would have answered that this morning, but someone with a lot of insight reminded me that it’s the
not
knowing that makes it impossible to move on from where you are.”

Barrie hoped those weren’t just empty words, but now at least she had the answer she’d been needing. She pulled Lula’s letter from her pocket and handed it to her aunt.

Pru went parchment pale as she read the letter. She reread it several times, then folded it slowly and put it back into its envelope. “Where did you find this?”

“Julia had it. She tried to get it to you, but she couldn’t get past Emmett.” Barrie watched Pru warily. “Can I do anything for you, Aunt Pru?”

“It’s after seven o’clock.” Pru rose to her feet. “I know you’re eating with Eight, but do you want a snack? It’s Mary’s night to stay late, so she can whip up something before you go get ready.”

“I’ll wait to eat, but I don’t have to go at all. If you want me to stay—”

“No.” The word was clipped, and after a moment Pru softened it with a tug of her lips. “I’m all right. Honestly. I
just need a cup of tea and a little time.” She crossed to the attic stairs, leaving Barrie to follow more slowly.

It was seven fifteen when Barrie reached the second floor. Eight was picking her up in less than an hour, and she was caked in grime. She hadn’t even talked to Mark yet, and right then she needed to hear the familiar sound of his voice even more than she needed a shower.

Downstairs in the library, either Pru or Mary—Pru, most likely—had been busy, scrubbing the whole room clean. She had removed the heavy velvet curtains from the windows, tied new floral chintz slipcovers over the two dusty armchairs, and left a stack of paperback books on the round table near the fireplace. Most telling, though, she had placed a seascape above the mantel where Emmett’s portrait had hung. The room hadn’t been so much cleaned as exorcised.

Only the locked drawer remained unchanged. Barrie rattled it as she sat at the desk to make her call, and while the phone rang on Mark’s end, she pulled open the top center drawer to search for keys. Then she closed it, realizing Pru could come in any second. Neither of them could take any more surprises. She pulled the phone with her and settled into one of the armchairs by the window. Mark’s voice came through the receiver along with a burst of noise and music.

“I can barely hear you, Mark! Are you watching
Veronica Mars
again?”

“Hold on!” Mark shouted back. “I’ll go out into the hall. I’m having a decorating party with the nearly-dead-and-departeds at the hospice. Turns out they’re all fabulous! Say hello to my Barrie, everyone!”

“Hello, Barrie!” The greeting came in a chorus of voices, bass to baritone, and then the sound of music and chatter died away. “Is that better?” Mark asked.

“Much. It’s wonderful to hear you having fun. And you sound better. Are you feeling better?”

“B, you know I won’t get—”

“What are we decorating?” Barrie interjected. “Don’t tell me you finally got tired of bordello-Gothic?”

“I’m going for a whole new look: red silk and zebra print. I found pillows and the cutest throw rug.”

“Wow, that
is
different.
Nothing
like your polar bear rug.”

Mark’s room had always looked like the Moulin Rouge had thrown up, pink and black satin, a throwback to his drag show days when he’d been going to be the next RuPaul, the next José Sarria. BTF, as Mark always called it. Before the Fire.

“Send me a picture when you’re finished,” Barrie said, “and I want a group pic with everyone there. No, wait. Damn. I still don’t have my phone, and there’s no Internet.”

Mark coughed again, a rattling cough. Was he crying?

“So you’ll never guess what I ate this morning,” she announced. “Shrimp and grits.”

“Shrimp for breakfast?” Mark asked damply. “That sounds hideous.”

“I’m sure there’s a place where you can order it too. You’re eating, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Barrie pulled her legs up and curled them underneath her on the chair. Her throat turned raw and tight. She listened to the wet, labored sound of Mark’s breathing while she sorted through everything she wanted to tell him. It came down to: “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For being
my
mother. For putting your life on hold to raise me. For putting up with Lula’s baggage so that you could stay.”

Silence swept down the phone line, and then Mark cleared his throat. “You know, I was looking out my window at the bay earlier, and telling myself that some of the water flowing in the river outside your window will end up here. Drops of
there
coming
here
. Drops of
here
going
there
.”

“In a million years maybe.”

“You’re always too literal, B. Who says time moves in a line? Could be it’s all mixed up like the water. Like souls and karma. Could be a million years is only five minutes from now, and it won’t be long before I see you. Oh, damn. Now I’m making my mascara run. Quick, go grab a Kleenex.”

“Why?” Barrie wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m not the one wearing mascara.”

“Then how do you expect to hook that hottie of yours, baby girl? Mascara is a girl’s best friend. Right up there with a great pair of shoes. What do I keep telling you?”

“Many things, and I ignore most of them. Also, the hottie is strictly catch and release. In a couple months, he’s going to school out in California.”

Mark’s fingernail tapped the phone, two, three, four, five times. He always tapped when he was thinking. “So you like him then. A lot.”

“A little,” Barrie insisted.

“Then forget what I told you about not falling for him. You go after him, baby girl. Have a fling. Everyone should have a fling. You’ll probably be sick of him anyway by the time he reaches his expiration date.”

His expiration date.

As if Eight were a carton of milk that would sour at the end of summer. Everyone in Barrie’s life seemed to have an expiration date. She sighed and couldn’t think of a thing to say.

The silence grew until Mark broke it: “Speaking of time, did you get the package I sent you? I expected you would call me.”

“Package?” Barrie wrapped the phone cord around her
fingers. “I’m sorry. Pru probably has it. It’s been hectic around here.”

“Oh . . . Well, call the minute you get it. In fact, call me before you open it.”

“I will.” Barrie tried to inject some enthusiasm back into her voice. Compared to everything else, Lula’s shoes, or whatever Mark had put in the package, didn’t seem important. Still, he had made the effort.

She hated to leave him disappointed. After she’d hung up, she stood with her hand on the receiver and tried to think of a funny moment she could call him back to share, some story that wouldn’t worry him or make her bring up Eight again. But Eight was the only lightness she had found since she’d arrived. Being with him was the only time she’d laughed.

Upstairs, the air was hot and stifling. She flung open the doors to the balcony and dropped into the armchair to pull off her shoes. The chair pitched forward, tipping Barrie out. She stumbled to her feet.

One of the legs had fallen off. Not broken. Not sheered. Unscrewed.

She had been kidding—or half-kidding—when she’d said the house was out to get her.

“What did I ever do to you?” She stooped to pick up the leg so she could reattach it, and she shook it at the ceiling, realizing only halfway through the motion that she was shouting
at the house the same way Pru had shouted at it, back when she’d thought Pru was crazy. And what was the deal, anyway? If the Fire Carrier had made a bargain with Thomas Watson, why wasn’t he keeping it? He was supposed to make the
yunwi
behave. Did voodoo wear off? Was that the problem? Because she had no intention of trying to find a voodoo priest.
That
would be a conversation to have with Pru.

Barrie tried to tell herself she was being silly as she showered and dressed. She didn’t bother to dry her hair, but the grandfather clock was already chiming eight o’clock when she knocked on Pru’s door at the end of the hallway.

But Pru didn’t answer, and there was no sound of movement from inside. Barrie was just thinking that Pru had to be really upset to have stayed up in the attic all this time, although she could have just gone straight down to the kitchen.

The doorbell rang. Eight was right on time. Why didn’t that surprise her? Barrie couldn’t drum up any annoyance, though. Her heart gave a glad little thud and then sped up to near-panic speed when Pru’s voice floated down from the attic, the words too far away to be distinct. What if Pru had changed her mind about letting her go to Cassie’s? About going there with Eight?

Maybe she shouldn’t go. Maybe she should stay with Pru.

Yet the idea of not seeing Eight, of not keeping her promise to her cousin . . .

She ran toward the stairs, shouting, “I’m leaving, Aunt Pru,” as she went.

Eight had let himself in by the time Barrie neared the landing. He stood at the bottom of the steps in red shorts and a clean, white shirt, looking so alive, it made Barrie’s blood rush and her breath catch as if she’d been slapped awake.

Mark had been right—he usually was. What was the point of protecting her heart from expiration dates? So what if Eight, or Pru, or even Watson’s Landing, were temporary islands of
found
in a sea of
lost
? Life wasn’t going to come knocking at her door. It wasn’t going to drag her out of bed while she buried her head beneath the covers, cowering. Living was going to be messy. She was bound to get scuff marks on her shoes.

She stopped on the last step, but Eight didn’t move aside to let her pass. They stood eye to eye, only a hand span apart.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Eight asked, and Barrie thought he was reading her heart again, until he added: “We could still go somewhere else. Somewhere fun. You don’t owe Cassie anything, you know.”

Barrie swept around him and headed for the door. “Aren’t you even a little curious about the treasure?”

“Frankly, my dear”—he gave her a heartbreaking grin—“I don’t give a damn.”

“Funny,” Barrie said, but she couldn’t help smiling back.

He leaned in closer. His eyes dropped to her lips and lingered. “As long as I’m channeling Rhett Butler, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do ever since last night.”

His voice was so soft, it was more like an echo as he bent toward her. His hands reached for hers. Their fingers brushed, and the
returning
clicked again, so loud even he had to hear it. How could he not hear it? The usual root beer and cherries smell of him mingled with the scent of salt on his skin. Barrie thought only for a second about how much breaking one heart could bear, but then his lips were almost warm on hers, almost touching . . .

“Barrie, sugar, are you still here?” Pru called from up the stairs. “Hold on, I’m coming down.”

Pru reached the second-floor landing as Barrie turned. “I told myself I wasn’t going to ask you to be careful,” Pru called down. “Be careful anyway.”

Barrie’s pulse
thud-thud-thudded
like wheels on cobblestones, and she nodded, not really listening. Eight had almost kissed her, and even almost had been amazing. She wanted to press her hands to her cheeks to hide the rush of color she knew was there.

Boys didn’t usually—ever—hang around long enough to want to kiss her. The finding gift or Mark or Lula or something always ran them off. Of course, Eight didn’t really know her yet. There was still time for him to run off screaming.

“Thanks, Aunt Pru.” She gave her aunt a vague wave and dismissed the thought that she should stay, that Pru might need her.

Eight waited until the front door had closed behind them before he turned her toward him again. “You have a smudge of dirt on your nose.”

“I do not.” She’d just had a shower, after all.

He gave her a slow, wicked grin. “Are you going to argue now?”

He brushed her nose with the edge of his finger and stepped closer, his eyes broadcasting that he was going to kiss her. But out there in the daylight, in the open, Barrie couldn’t. Mouth dry again, she stepped away. The sun vanished behind a cloud overhead, and she shivered. “Um. Maybe I should get a sweater.”