Reborn (10 page)

“Even the white folk feared him. They say, ‘The devil took his soul and he became a monster.’ By the time Solomon was in his mid-twenties, none of the locals would do business with him. Eventually, he drank and gambled away his inheritance, all but this land and what was on it.”

The image of everything she’d said played in my head, as if I was there. “What happened to him?”

“He was last seen in 1862 riding a white horse in Atlanta; supposedly he got struck down by bandits. He was twenty-eight.”

Desiree’s tale felt too familiar. I didn’t want to hear any more.

“But there’s no real account of his death. According to vital statistics, the family plot holds his empty grave.” A line formed in the space between her eyebrows. “Do you think you’re related to him?”

Something inside me screamed
yes,
but I didn’t want to admit to the truth out loud. I glanced at Melba out of the corner of my eye. She hadn’t said a word during the account of Desiree’s findings. Her wide-eyed gaze focused on the bare table in front of her, as she quietly fingered the pendants that sat at the deep hollow below her neck.

“Auntie Mel?”

Still holding the pendants, Melba glanced up. “It’s possible, I guess.”

Desiree leaned closer to the center of the table. “If he is, maybe he has a claim to this place.”

“I don’t want it.” And I didn’t. Chills crawled up my back, as I felt the invisible slave woman’s eyes on me. I would rather live in the wild than spend any more time on these cursed grounds.

“If you were a descendant of the first Solomon Brandt, you would have known so by now. In all the twenty-six, twenty-seven years of your life, someone would have told you. I would have known.”

“How would you have known?” Desiree asked.

“I work here, child. History would be different.”

Desiree flopped against the chair’s backrest, looking a little disappointed, and even more suspicious. “So you don’t think he’s who he says he is?”

Melba stood so abruptly, the side of her hand hit a mug, which rattled against a plate. With both hands, she grabbed the two, and then pulled them apart, a look of relief masking her concern. Then, giving us a stern look she said, “The windows won’t clean themselves. Is the history lesson over, Des?”

The perplexed look Desiree gave her aunt made me wonder why Melba wanted this meeting to end sooner rather than later.

“There’s one more thing,” Desiree said in measured words, while reaching inside her bag.

When she pulled out her hand, she held another piece of paper and sat it in the center of the table.

Melba’s hands flew to her pendants.

I stared in horror as the picture of a painting of a man who looked nearly identical to me stared back.

Both women looked from the picture to me.

“Seems pretty undeniable to me,” Desiree said with a pointed look at me. “You’re related.”

“Nonsense,” Melba said tapping the picture with the tips of her fingers. “Look at the hair. Not even close.”

Desiree cocked her head and pursed her lips.

“Only the length is different.” She looked down at the picture. “But the eyes.” She lifted the paper and pointed to it. “The eyes are identical.”

Scarily identical
.

“Can we have a look around?” she asked her aunt.

“No. I have to get to work.” Melba walked toward the kitchen door, and then looked back. “Solomon.”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” I gave Desiree an apologetic look and reluctantly turned away from her.

But the soft touch of her hand on my wrist stopped me in my tracks. I glanced down my arm at her hand, then to her face, and the desperate look it held. The luster in her eyes brightened. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t.

Her desperation worked its way inside me, and I wanted to stay in this moment as much as I felt she did, but Melba called again, her voice a distance away now.

Desiree lifted her hand from my outstretched arm. She scooped up the papers and shoved them inside her bag, then looked at me, smiling.

“Well, I hope you find yourself, soon.”

“Thanks for,” I looked at the empty spot in the center of the table where moments ago my likeness had been, “everything.”

“Hey, I can wait for you and we can talk more about the infamous Solomon Brandt,” she said, as if it was a headline, “if you like.”

“Somehow, I don’t think your aunt would approve.”

“It’s not like she’s your master and you’re her slave, right?”

She giggled, and I got the feeling that giggle might just have been the first that kitchen had ever seen.

“Well, no, but she’s done so much for me, and…” And Melba was security. I trusted her, but I wanted more than anything to spend time with Desiree. “She needs my help.”

A loud crunch of gravel, coming from outside, made both of us turn to the window.

“Shit,” Desiree said with a look of surprise on her face. “It’s a tour bus.” She flicked her gaze to me. “Someone must have gotten the schedule mixed up.”

ossibly more people than I’d ever seen exited the bus, filling up the parking space. The sounds of their conversations reached the kitchen. Looking as desperate as I felt, Desiree grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hall.

“Who are those people?” I asked as my heart pounded faster than usual.

Were they coming for me?

“Oh, they’re a tour group, but I’m sure they aren’t supposed to be here today, or else Auntie Mel got her dates wrong.”

We were nearly at the end of the second hallway, far from the grand staircase, when Desiree made a turn to the right and pulled me into an open doorway, which led to a large room, decorated in dark paneling and gold velvet drapes.

Once inside, I released the tight grip I had on her hand and closed the heavy, six-paneled door behind us.

The next moment was a blur. Working fast, I reached behind a small statue of a man on a horse, which sat on a table beside the door, opened a small wooden box I found there, and picked out a brass key. With my right hand, I already had the brass key plate slid aside on the door. I slipped the key into the hole and turned it until I heard the click I was waiting for.

When I turned, Desiree’s wide-eyed gaze met mine.

“What?” I said.

Her green eyes looked as if they were about to fall from their sockets, as her hands gripped the straps of her bag, turning her knuckles white.

I stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you even know what you just did?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Her stunned gaze fell to my hand.

As if just waking from a dream, I looked at the key, still held between my fingers, with the feeling I’d lost something, a recent memory.

Desiree dropped her bag onto a tapestry-covered sofa and came closer. She took the brass object from my grip and held it up between us.

“You just dug this key out of its hiding place and unlocked that…” she hesitated, as if considering her next words, “somewhat complicated lock, like a pro.” Then, exhibiting a dubious look, she said, “Have you been here with Auntie Mel before?”

“No. Today is the first time.”

“Somehow, I don’t think this is your first time here. Maybe before your memory loss?”

I shrugged, searching myself for an inkling of memory to put truth to her speculations. But the only thing that came to mind was closing the door behind us, and then holding the key, door already locked.

Desiree’s eyebrows knitted together. “Hmm.”

She handed me the key, and I slipped it into a front pocket of my jeans.

“Well, looks like we’re stuck here for a bit. This is one room the tour guide won’t be able to show.” Her fresh smile lit up the dull space.

She walked to the front wall of windows, which showcased the columns on the receiving balcony and the long driveway beyond, and started closing drapes.

I got the hint and helped.

“Can’t have tourists peeping inside,” she said in a lighter tone.

Once the curtains were closed, the room was dark enough; I could just make out the outlines of things, including the long curls framing Desiree’s upper half.

She took out her cell phone and held it outward, shining the display light around the room, stopping when the glow fell on a table beside the sofa, and the oil lamp that sat on top of it.

“I don’t suppose you have a lighter, or matches, do you?” she asked, shining the light on my face.

I looked into the rectangular device she held, squinting. “No.”

The drawer in the table that held the lamp beckoned to me. In my head, I saw a small box with the words
Parlor Matches
written on it. Desiree opened the drawer and pulled out the exact box I envisioned. The unpleasant vibe—as Melba would call it—was nothing compared to the downright dread I felt after Desiree lit the lamp and turned up the flame, creating a familiar glow in the center of the room, while an eerie gloom fell around its edges.

“I better call my aunt. She’s probably having a heart attack about now, wondering where we’d run off to.”

A moment later, a loud voice came on the other end of her phone. “Auntie Mel, I know. Didn’t you know there was a tour today?”

After a moment, Desiree put her hand over the phone and turned her attention to me. “She didn’t know. Says it wasn’t on the schedule.” Then she turned her attention back to her phone and the frantic voice inside. “We’re in Solomon’s Den.”

Her description of the room sent a chill up my back. As if realizing what she’d said, she looked up from the phone and gave me an apologetic look.

“Okay,” she shook her head to the phone. “Well, we’re stuck here for now. Right. Okay, we’ll meet you later.”

“She says the tour should take about an hour, and not to let anyone see… us.”

I got the feeling she meant—me; specifically, my resemblance to the infamous Solomon Brandt.

After glancing around the room, my gaze came back to Desiree. The glow of the oil lamp haloed her hair, making some strands appear golden, like her skin. She was the most beautiful thing in my memories, and just looking at her quelled any anxiety welling inside me.

“It’s kinda creepy in here in the dark,” she said, her voice suddenly low.

“There must be a light switch somewhere,” I said.

“No, we’d better not. It’ll be too bright. They might see it in the hall.”

No sooner did Desiree speak than a noise coming from behind her, by the far wall, made her jump. She scooted beside me, close enough that I felt her arm brush against mine. I wasn’t sure if instinct or desire made me wrap an arm around her, nestling her into my side. She snuggled her frightened self against me, her hands clasped in front of her mouth, against my chest.

“What was that?” she whispered.

I didn’t know what the scraping noise was, but I knew I had to reassure her everything was okay. “Something probably loosened when we closed the drapes, and decided to fall at this time.”

Her short laugh moved her warm body against mine. The small bit of comfort I gave heightened my desire for her. Protecting this girl felt beyond right.

She unlatched one of her hands from its grip on the other and grabbed a fistful of the front of my T-shirt. “Solomon?”

Hearing my name whispered from between her lips made the next breath catch in my throat.