Hacienda Moon (The Path Seekers) (4 page)

Something wasn’t the word to describe the woman Eric had seen. She was drop-dead gorgeous in a classic sense. And she carried herself with grace and something else he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

For some reason, she made him think of cherry pie, the kind with a thick crust on the top and bottom and all the good stuff waiting in between. Pies his mother used to enjoy baking every Sunday. That was up until the time his father died. And then she just kind of drifted away into a world of sculpture making and watching old Lucille Ball reruns, forgetting that the rest of her family even existed.
 

No, the tenant at Chelby Rose wasn’t anymore a witch than Eric’s ancestors had been warlocks. Abby’s jealousy would taint her relationships the same way Eric’s inability to commit to one woman did all of his.

The piano music stopped and Virgil lifted his heavy frame up, a smug grin riding his face. “The missus calls. Stick around so you two can meet.”

“You got it,” Eric said, amazed by the differences marriage had made in his friend. Back in the day, the two of them lived in the Principal’s office. Their friends nicknamed them the Chaos Masters. Trouble for one meant extra stress in the parents of both. Tests, cars, sports, girls, sex…
sisters
—scratch that last one—the two boys had shared everything. The move to New Orleans had severed that bond; but he was still happy for his friend.

Watching Virgil slow dance with his wife filled him with happiness. But hearing Abby’s words about the witches and ghosts of Bolivia jerked him back to a reality he wasn’t ready to face.

3

The white-haired literary agent combed through her manuscript. “I know that look,” Tandie said and chewed the inside of her bottom lip.

There weren’t many agents who still made personal visits to an author’s home, especially when the client lived in a different state. To know someone believed in her talent that way shriveled the insecurity demon and its evil cousin known as writer’s block. Seated in Tandie’s study, the two women discussed the untitled manuscript.

Tandie had been fortunate enough to live within the publishing capital of the world. She also met numerous agents during parties held by the NYPD who jumped at the chance to work with the psychic girl who had survived a near death experience when she was younger. Marsha Arrington glanced at Tandie over the rims of her red glasses, placed the manuscript on her lap, and crossed her hands.

“You know I love your nonfiction, psychic jibber jabber, right? Those books have heart and focus. They sell well. You know why?” Marsha asked.

“I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.” Tandie sat down with a tray containing black coffee for Marsha and ginseng tea for herself.

“Because you’re writing what you know when you write that stuff.” Marsha picked up the manuscript again and flipped through the pages. “This—this concoction of a horror cliché is missing the essence of best selling psychic guru Tandie Harrison.”

“Wow, Marsha. Don’t feel like you have to go easy on that criticism, okay?” Tandie poured herself a cup of tea.

“Don’t get me wrong. Your antagonist, Eric Fontaine, might be any old chip off the serial killer block. And Maud, well, she’s about as dumb as we expect, falling in love with her captor. It’s typical airhead, b-horror movie action,” Marsha said. Her silky white kimono shirt, the chopstick barrettes in her light hair, and the red-rimmed glasses gave her a nouveau kind of geisha look.

“Last I recall, a really smart lady told me to chill with my over the top writing. So, I did,” Tandie said, thinking back on the day Marsha chided her for using five metaphors within one three-sentence paragraph.

“It’s not over the top writing,” Marsha answered.

“You just said it was.” Tandie shoved her hands out to the sides, emphasizing her aggravation.

“I said clichéd. There’s a hell of a world of difference between the two,” Marsha said.

“I want people to know that just because I’m psychic doesn’t mean I can’t sell fiction,” she protested.

“Tandie, this isn’t your best. I wouldn’t dare take this to an editor. You even have pages missing in some places.” Marsha flipped through the manuscript again.

“What do you mean by missing pages?” Tandie moved to sit beside Marsha.

“Here, let me show you.” Marsha flipped through the sections where the missing pages should’ve been. Feeling embarrassed for not inserting all of the sheets, Tandie took the manuscript and shuffled through it. Sure enough twenty pages at the beginning of her middle section were gone. Tandie frowned and sighed. She’d worked day and night since arriving at Chelby Rose. There’s no way she would have let something like that slip up under the eagle-eyed Marsha Arrington.

“What the—I didn’t notice pages missing when I proofed it last night,” Tandie said.

“Whelp, twenty of them have taken flight to the Twilight Zone then.” Marsha pushed her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose and stared at Tandie with an unblinking, wide-eyed expression.

“No, Marsha, I’m anal about these things. It comes from seven years of crime unit conditioning. I would’ve noticed this when I checked over the manuscript last night. Why would I have let you come all this way just to see incomplete work?” Tandie asked.

Marsha studied Tandie a few more moments and then reached into her bag, pulling out a cigarette.

“Tandie, sweetie, it’s not ready for publication.” Marsha noticed Tandie staring at the cigarette and said, “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I thought you quit. Those nicotine patches didn’t work?” Tandie asked.

“I have to drive from here to Kalamazoo to reach an airport. My nerves are shot.”

A blast of water from a faucet in the kitchen startled Marsha so that she dropped her cigarette down into her lap. Both women turned toward the sound that echoed from down the hallway.

“What the—?” Tandie stalked toward the kitchen located at the end of the hallway. She trudged over to the sink and turned the faucet’s flower-shaped knob until the water stopped gushing. Frowning, she shrugged, and returned to the living room where a distraught Marsha swept cigarette ashes out of her lap.

“That was odd. The faucet just turned on all by itself again.” Tandie stared toward the kitchen.

“These old houses have quirks and lives of their own. I hope you have renter’s insurance,” Marsha said, glancing around the room.

“I do. But that’s not the first time this has happened. My first night here, I turned the bathtub faucets off at least three times,” Tandie said, wondering when Saul’s man would show up and still embarrassed about leaving out the missing pages of her manuscript.

“Call a plumber before he has to call on you first. Better even. Hire a contractor. You got yourself a real fixer upper here,” Marsha suggested as she stuffed her glasses into a case and gathered her belongings.

“Thanks for coming, Marsha. I just hate that what you saw wasn’t my best.”

“Work it out, Tandie. You’re an excellent non-fiction writer. People love your psychic books. Put more of you into this one because as it stands, there’s no Tandie in it. And give it a title for Joseph’s sake.” Marsha stood and headed toward the front door.

“I’ll come back in a month or two. My brother and his wife are renewing their vows or something crazy like that. What does that mean, anyway? Renewing your vows.” She scoffed and shook her head as if she were in deep inner thought. “I’ll be in the Raleigh-Durham area again and will shoot by here too. I’ll come back sooner if you tell me you’ve got the
Times’
next bestseller.” At the doorway, Marsha turned around, her expression kind. She had the kind of eyes that dug deep down in your soul. “I didn’t get where I am in this business by taking on half-ass clients. You’re more than that. But I can only tell you what I think. The believing in yourself part belongs to you.”
 

On that note, Marsha Arrington bid Tandie good night, got into her rental car, and sped off down Chelby Rose’s driveway.

* * *

Shaken by Abby’s accusation, Eric made a point to take time for seeing his family’s old Pastor, a man by the name of Brian Jeffries. The nighttime sky over the church looked angry with its light gray clouds gliding low against a dark sky. The smell of rain lingered in the air and reminded him of Lake Pontchartrain back home in New Orleans.

Earlier in the day, he’d spoken with his younger brother, Juno, who chided him about being back in Bolivia, terrifying his mother by being so close to whatever thing she was so afraid of in that little town. Something in Bolivia frightened his parents to the point where his father decided to uproot his family and leave.
 

Eric’s family was the last generation of Fontalvos to abandon the confines of Brunswick Town. The move meant that his father had to close the turpentine portion of the business that had been in the family for decades. The decision broke his father down, even though the relocation made his mother happy.

Soon after they settled in New Orleans, the wine bottle became his father’s best friend and his worst enemy. But hard work made the man, shaping him and securing his place in society. That was his father’s motto and now it was his too.

“Eric, my boy. It’s such a delight to see you again.” Pastor Jeffries embraced him as soon as he stepped through the doorway. He was a tall black man with a plump frame and a calm face. “Don’t tell me. You’ve come to ask me to marry you and that cute little gal you brought by here last time?” The pastor hadn’t changed. He still wanted Eric to have a family of his own. He had no idea that he and Lisa had split up.

“No. There won’t be any holy unions anytime soon for me,” Eric said and walked over to sit on the first bench facing the pew. “Lisa and I split up a year or so ago.”

Pastor Jeffries sat down beside him, a sad look etched on his jolly face. “What happened, son?”

“Life happened. My work and a few other things.” Eric hesitated. He didn’t want to tell him about the other women, so he changed the subject. “Looks like stiff neck Saul Chelby sold that old plantation.”

“Not yet. He’s renting it to the young writer, I hear.”

Eric perked up. “Writer? I thought she was a psychic?”

“Hmm interesting. It’s funny how he decided to sell the place. But I’m not surprised that the person he chose happens to be a psychic.”

“Why’s that?” Eric asked, feeling the same way but wanting to hear what the Pastor would say. His parents trusted this man with all their secrets and heartaches and Eric trusted him too. “Don’t tell me you bought into all that witch talk?”

“No, not witches. But there’s something in that house. It brings out the worst in people. Even Saul Chelby doesn’t want to live there.”

“He hired me to do the contractual work on it,” Eric said. Quite frankly, he wanted to warn the woman living in there about what the pastor said. “I got the work request from Saul a few weeks before I came here.”

A worried look crossed the pastor’s face. He studied his plump hands before speaking. “I hope you turned it down.”

“What? Why? Pastor with all due respect, my company needs the money.”
And I need to get closer to the woman living in the house
, he wanted to add.

Eric’s family lineage was strange.
 
The Fontalvo history even came with its own mythology. One of his ancestors named Enrique sailed to the island on a Spanish warship that attacked Brunswick Town back in September of 1748. It was called the Fortuna. Soon, his ancestor set up a shop and met the wealthy Chelby family who quickly became his fastest clients. Later on, Enrique had told his customers that an evil spirit brought him across time, proving his sanity was questionable to say the least.

There was no use in concentrating on what some called a lunatic’s ranting. Instead, Eric resolved to focus on Saul Chelby’s decision to sell the old mansion, even though he was renting it at the moment. And it fascinated him that that person just happened to be a psychic, a gorgeous one too. He kept thinking about the day he met the woman at the airport. Coincidence, he didn’t believe in it; fate that was a different story. If this woman was the way to ending his family’s tortures and pains then Eric resolved to find the way. He promised his mother that he wouldn’t return without some kind of answer on how to save his brother.

“Son, please consider turning that job down,” Pastor Jeffries said, his eyes filled with fear and worry. “I’m not a superstitious man. I believe the Lord Jesus has all in control. Evil don’t stand no chance against a good heart. But I’m also a prudent man. Throughout the years every single Fontalvo male has died before he reached the age of forty-two. Your father was the exception. Now I don’t know a whole lot about witches and things, son, but I do believe because your father left this place that he was spared. Do the same thing, Eric. And don’t ever look back.”

Eric swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lie. “I’ll consider it, Pastor.”