Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (4 page)

While she painted she listened to music. Today it was Scott Miller; his version of “I’ll Go to My Grave” got her every time. She’d seen him live several times and appreciated his wry sense of humor almost as much as his music. She’d also seen an image online of the old farmhouse he lived in. She’d love to paint it. He seemed like someone she might get along with.

Griffith Tavern was starting to come to life on her canvas, even in the black and white stage. She was still using charcoal but the tavern was growing in front of her eyes as she filled in the holes and gaps. In her art classes, many of the other students had criticized her paintings for not having enough character or personality, for being too photographic–for not truly being “art,” whatever
that
meant. In this job, however, it was expected and the very thing her clients appreciated about her work. She could get more creative and did sometimes on her own, but those paintings felt personal, private. She’d never let anyone actually look at them.

The longer she drew, the more inside her head she dove. She kept thinking about Daniel and his friends, her experiences at college and in high school. What started out as a small tinge of jealousy soon turned to the whispers of irritation and resentment. Why
hadn’t
she made friends? Why hadn’t she been able to find a close-knit group of people she could belong to? She didn’t understand why she’d always felt so much like an outcast. 

Driving her annoyance into her hands, she worked feverishly, shading and capturing the curve of the columns, the ancient brick, the stone steps.

She would be just fine on her own, she told herself. Just fine.

A ray of sunlight peeked through the clouds and hit a shard of glass still holding on in one of the upstairs windows. With the flash, the house seemed to wink at her, as if in agreement.

T
he rain was heavy and cold; the lightning fierce and strong. With each flash it lit up the yard with a brilliant flare, illuminating the stables and gardens. The roar of thunder that followed was quick and bold; the storm was above them now and in its full glory.

She’d come outside barefoot and the mud rose up between her toes and caught on the hem of her woolen dress. She was freezing, and it wasn’t just from the rain and night air. She moved with determination, not giving in to the fear wanting to consume her. The tavern rose before her like a beacon, dark and foreboding. She walked towards it, keeping her eyes on the faint glow of light stemming from the upstairs window–her bedroom. When the sky was darkened, it was the only thing she could see.

Her breathing was heavy and labored, almost ragged. Her head pounded with a pain she’d never known before and she was nearly blinded by it. Only a few more steps and she’d be there, safe. Safe from what, she wasn’t sure. She just knew she had to hurry.

When she reached the front porch she stopped, shook the rain from her tangled hair, and looked down at herself as the lightning filled the sky again. From her dress ran rivers of dark water–not rain, but blood. It soaked into the ground and disappeared into the night. But her hands, oh her hands, they were covered. With the final burst of thunder, so loud the very ground shook in its quake, she screamed.

Taryn woke up; her covers pushed to the floor and her head pounding. She was drenched in cold sweat, her face and arms clammy with it. The television was still on, Tony Danza and Judith Light were bickering in the on-screen kitchen. Reaching for the remote, Taryn turned up the volume. She wouldn’t be sleeping for the rest of the night.

Chapter 4

T
he next several days passed without incident. Over the summer her doctor prescribed her some Ambien to help with her sleep issues but she wasn’t taking it regularly. Now, Taryn knew she might want to start. She’d always had trouble sleeping, and her nightmares felt worse than those she imagined most people had, but dreaming about the tavern had felt different. She had seen the rain, felt the wet grass under her feet, and even experienced the panic and confusion the woman in the dream was feeling. She couldn’t think of that person as herself. They hadn’t moved like her or thought like her–for Taryn, it was like watching a movie unfold through someone else’s eyes.

Her two hospitalizations in Vidalia happened months ago but sometimes she still felt like she was recovering. Being poisoned and knocked out, on two separate occasions, could do that to a person she reckoned. She wasn’t feeling herself, though. She was still getting headaches almost every day and sometimes she felt a disturbing tingling in her left arm. Her doctor told her she might have suffered some nerve damage and given her more pills. One, however, made her lose the taste of soda and she couldn’t handle that so she didn’t take them. A world without Coke and Sprite just didn’t feel right.

She tried to think about the dream in a logical sense. What did it mean? What was it really about? Sometimes a horse wasn’t sexual; sometimes a horse was just a horse. Maybe the tavern dream was about her loneliness, her frustration. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the actual tavern at all.

Yet it had felt so real. She was there, experiencing the movements, but it didn’t feel like her. She wasn’t in control of her actions. She was still a little shaken by the fear she’d experienced, the horror. And she also felt…dirty somehow. Something wasn’t right.

But, she had work to do. She had a job.

With her easel set up and her paints ready, she met Griffith Tavern with determination. Taryn painted with careful observation and skill. As she worked, she tried to consider the history of the place; how it might have felt to the early settlers who were moving westward to start new lives and find their fortune. Were they scared, excited, nervous? What did they plan on doing once they arrived at their destination? How many turned around and went back home when things got hard?

Taryn loved an adventure and liked to travel but she wasn’t sure she’d have been one of the early settlers trying to find her way out west. The stories she’d heard about the difficulties of traveling were enough to make her wary. Food shortages, native attacks, illnesses, accidents with the wagons and coaches…only the toughest were able to make it and even then it wasn’t easy. Taryn, herself, was finding that the older she got the more stars she required in her hotel.

The air around the tavern was thicker that day, more intense. As she painted in concentration she got the distinct feeling the building was holding its breath, waiting. The sky was bright, not a cloud in it now, the grass thick from the rain. A light breeze cooled things off. But something wasn’t right. With each brush stroke she felt as though something was watching her, observing her, circling around her like a hawk. She turned around at one point, expecting to see Daniel or someone else coming up from behind her. Nobody was there.

The building in her painting was taking on its details in stride, emerging from the canvas a little at a time. Rather than looking as though she was creating it with her brushes, it looked like the image was already there and she was merely uncovering it, bringing it out from hiding with each stroke of the brush.

Standing back from the easel, she considered her work. It was darker than she’d intended. If a house could have a personality this one would be proud. If it could have feelings, it would be lonely.

The air around her quaked, an almost audible sound. Then, when the warmth rushed over her and sent her hair flying, she could almost swear it had breathed a sigh of relief–a release of exaltation.

H
ours later, Taryn stopped working and spread a patchwork quilt on the ground. She’d stopped at a grocery store and bought white bread, turkey, American cheese, and mayo to make sandwiches. There were bananas and apples to go along with them and a carton of Chips Ahoy. She told herself she’d only have a couple and not eat the entire bag like she did the last time she bought cookies, but she wasn’t confident she could keep that promise.

When the white Buick turned off the highway and ambled towards her down the drive she was curious, but not concerned. She assumed it must be one of the members of the organization but when the overweight man in khaki pants, white buttoned-down shirt, sports coat, and red tie emerged she wondered if she was going to be subjected to a talk by a Jehovah’s Witness. He held a black notebook in his hand and had a Canon slung around his neck, though, so she figured she was safe from any religious spiel.

“Hello there,” he called, walking towards her.

He must be sweltering
, she thought to herself, and as if on cue he whipped out a handkerchief and started mopping at his neck. It wasn’t that hot but the sun was bright and when it shone down without any protection from the clouds it got pretty warm in the field.

“Hey,” she hollered back, rising to her feet and dusting the cookie crumbs off her shorts. “If you’re trying to sell me something then you’re at the wrong place. I’m broke.”

The man smiled and ran his free hand through his thinning black hair. She pegged him to be around forty-five years old, although with the extra weight it was hard to tell. “No, no,” he shook his head and pointed to his camera. “I’m just here to take some pictures and record some measurements. I’m from Longhorn and Reed.”

The development company
, she sighed. It seemed like she was always dealing with one no matter where she worked.

“Well,” she tried to smile. “I won’t bother you. I’m just here painting. I don’t guess I’m in your way.”

“No, no, you’re fine. It’s a nice drawing, if I may say so.” He walked the few feet until he was in front of it and shook his head in approval. Taryn folded her arms and waited while he inspected her brushes and palette. “You do good work.”

“Thank you.” Since he sounded sincere she tried not to hold his profession against him.

“I know those kids who hired you want to make this place solid again, but the whole building’s a wreck. Anyone could see that. Structural damage, rotted boards inside, termites, and even the brick’s crumbling in a few places.” He used his notepad like a stick, pointing out weak spots from a distance while he talked. “The whole thing just needs to be torn down, in my opinion. The money it would take to fix it, if it even can be fixed, is more than anyone around here is going to come up with.”

Taryn bit her tongue but managed to flash him a quick smile out of southern politeness. “Well, they’re optimistic it can be done. I’ve seen a lot places with more wear and tear than this rise up from the ashes. So you never know.”

Shooting her a condescending look, he shook his head. “When the exit ramp comes, this is going to be a highly developed area. We’re looking at three restaurants, a Kohl’s, a Target and that’s just for starters. Give the people in this area a lot more options than what they have now. How far do you have to drive to get to any shopping around here? A Mexican restaurant? Half an hour? Trim that down to about ten minutes. Will totally revitalize the community.”

Or evaporate it all together.
And why can’t the old and new coexist with one another?
Taryn wondered. “Maybe. But you’re also losing a valuable piece of the area’s history in the name of progress.”

“Sometimes that just can’t be helped. Casualties and all. With so many of these small towns drying up, sometimes you have to make hard decisions for the good of the community.”

He said it with a tone of regret, but she didn’t buy it. He didn’t look like he minded making those hard decisions. He’d barely looked at the tavern at all, except for when he was pointing out its flaws. He didn’t see the same things she did, the same things she knew Daniel and the rest of them saw. “If we continue to demolish our past, how are we going to remember it?” she asked.

Wiping at his neck again with his handkerchief, he studied her drawing without meeting her eyes. “It’s not such an important place, really, when you think about it in the scheme of things. Just a stop on a route used more than a hundred years ago. Nothing noteworthy happened here, no vital part of history. It’s just a small place. Of course it’s important to save the bigger places, and I donate to a lot of preservation causes. But this? In the scheme of things it’s insignificant.”

Probably not to the people who owned it and made their lives here
, Taryn thought as she watched him walk away, his camera held out in front of him. It wasn’t insignificant at all.

W
ith a click of her mouse, Taryn sent the last of her money to pay her monthly payment on her Capitol One credit card account. “Well,” she announced aloud. “It was good to have it while it lasted.” Now, her checking account wavered at exactly $21.56. She hoped that was enough to get her back and forth to the tavern for a few days until more money came in. Her previous client, a salt box job in Massachusetts, still owed her around $400. And the Griffith Tavern folks would pay the remaining balance when she finished her job there. Most of that money would go to bills.

“Miss Dixie, our ship’s gotta come in sooner or later, right?” But Miss Dixie just sat on the B&B room dresser and looked at her, stoic as always.

There wouldn’t be any eating out this week but she was ready for that and had gone to the grocery and come back with more sandwich meat, crackers, Hot Pockets, and Cokes. It would last her for a few days. She didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment. Thankfully, the room had a microwave and a small refrigerator. The breakfast was pretty big, too, and she could always smuggle some bananas or muffins in her bag.

Feeling depressed, she fell back against her pillows and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. Had there ever been a time when she wasn’t concerned about money? Now, it seemed to constantly be on her mind. How much did she have, how much did she need, and where was the next paycheck going to come from? She wasn’t frivolous with cash by any means. The jean shorts and T-shirt she was wearing came from a secondhand store and cost her approximately $4. For both. The biggest payment she had, other than her rent, was her health insurance and she needed it. But it always felt like she was struggling.

She could get rid of her storage unit. That was costing her $75 a month and the money would be nice. But the idea of doing it made her ill. Andrew’s stuff was in there and even though he died years ago and the pain wasn’t as fresh, she still wasn’t ready to face it. The last time she’d opened the unit his scent had hit her like a ton of bricks, washing over her in waves. The almost air-tight unit had sealed it in like chicken in a freezer bag. She’d closed the door as fast as she could and made it back to her car before she collapsed on the blacktop, crying a hideous amount of tears, her reason for going completely forgotten.