I awoke later than I had planned, but I felt excited about the day ahead of me. My new landlord, Bette, had politely tapped on my door to invite me to breakfast, an unexpected perk that I sincerely appreciated. I stepped into the bright kitchen of Bette’s home to eat a bowl of decadent cheesy grits and bacon. The smell set my stomach to growling. The kitchen had an old-fashioned but tidy floor and a vintage, chrome-edged table. A bowl of polished wax fruit decorated the tabletop, along with a pair of whimsical Campbell’s Soup salt and pepper shakers. This is what a home must feel like, I thought happily.
“Ready to work on that big old house today?” Bette slid a small glass of juice and a cup of coffee toward me, and I gratefully accepted them.
“Yes, I think I am! It’s going to be a lot of work, but chances like this don’t come but once in a lifetime, really. Thanks again for allowing me to stay in the apartment.”
“Oh, it’s my treat. I like having people nearby, and frankly, I’m happy that Mr. Stuart has hired you. They needed to do something about that place. The Seven Sisters mansion is too beautiful to just rot into the landscape; we Mobilians need to have a bit more pride in our history here. We’ve got some real stories to tell. Did you know that the French settlers used to send little orphan girls over here to marry these backwoods French-Canadians? Poor little things. They called them the Pelican Girls because they landed on Dauphin Island in Pelican Bay. No, wait, maybe the ship was called The Pelican. Oh, I can’t remember, but there are plenty of sad stories to tell. Not the least of which are the ones from Seven Sisters, but I guess you know all about those.” Bette’s short white curls framed her round face perfectly and shook with her expressiveness.
“I don’t know a thing, really—only the facts from the brochures. I am intrigued, though.” Then I thought for a moment and asked, “Are the Stuarts an old family here in Mobile?”
Bette smiled, then launched into her story. “Well, Mrs. Stuart was actually a Hunter. They were the ones who purchased Seven Sisters sometime in the 1960s. According to my friend, Cynthia Dowd—she’s on the board of the Historical Society, and she has such lovely white hair—the families here were very excited when the Hunters purchased the property. There was a lot of work going on at Oakleigh, the antebellum over off Government Boulevard. People had hoped that the Hunters would do the same thing with Seven Sisters, but nothing happened. Emily Stuart died sometime around 1985, I think. After that, things just quieted down. That was such a sad affair. That little boy, Ashland, was so brave. He didn’t have a soul to depend on. Not counting all the family that came out of the woodwork. Imagine, so young and so much money, of course. Still he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Cynthia has bent over backwards to introduce him to her niece—poor cross-eyed girl. He’s come to a few of our luncheons and talked about the old house. What a stir he caused. I can’t understand why he’s not married yet.” Bette sipped her coffee from the chipped china cup and stood to look out the window.
Before I could ask anything else, the cuckoo clock on the wall signaled the half hour, kicking me into business mode. “I have to run. I can’t be late, not good for the first day on a new job. Is there anything I can do to help clean up?” I rose from the vinyl-padded chair and carried my dishes to the sink. I wasn’t used to anyone cooking for me, much less washing my dishes.
“Oh, no. I’ve got this little meal under control. I’ll make biscuits tomorrow. Maybe you’ll tell me what you find. I wish I could explore that old home. Such sadness, I bet.”
I waved goodbye and stepped outside into the sunshine. I had dressed in comfortable, light clothing, just blue jeans, a new T-shirt and sneakers. That was a good thing. It was warm already, and I imagined it would get even warmer in the house. I managed to pull my hair back in a ponytail, partly because I wanted to hide last night’s wound and partly because I knew I’d sweat.
Last night’s accidental dream already seemed like a distant memory, but I didn’t doubt that Muncie had lived, served and maybe died right where I would be working. Finding out more about him was added incentive to dig deep into the history of the old home. It felt good to have a purpose beyond cataloging antiques and paintings.
My phone jangled in my purse. I pulled it out and sighed. William. I couldn’t keep putting off talking to him; it just never seemed like a good time. That described our relationship perfectly—off-balance and never right. I couldn’t blame him entirely. He tried to make me happy, but I had to be honest. I didn’t love him. With a sigh, I hit the ignore button. I found my car keys in the planter where Ashland had promised to leave them. I knew that he had driven my car home. When I opened the door, I caught a whiff of his cologne. Absently, I wondered if I would see him today as I eased out of the driveway.
When I arrived, I was on time but nearly last to the party. The small road that led to the house was lined with work trucks, everything from landscapers to a local computer setup team. It was weird knowing that many of these contractors waited on directions from me. I grabbed my laptop bag, along with my notes, and headed up the path. It was nice to make the trek in the daylight. (I intended on sticking my tongue out at the ugly satyr.)
Walking through the azalea-lined pathway seemed much less menacing with a blue sky trying to peep through. A squirrel squeaked and skittered in the underbrush, probably complaining at the cacophony of humans who disturbed his normally peaceful environment. “Sorry, little guy,” I said with a shrug.
At the end of the path I once again faced Seven Sisters, my new second home, and the sheer size of the building set me back on my heels. The house sat slightly to the right of the path. I could plainly see the work that time had so mercilessly made of the house, the missing and hanging plantation shutters, the moss covering everything that dared reach up for the sun. Fruit and pecan trees that had begun as hopeful saplings now smothered the landscape, closing in perilously on the house. Off to the right of the path stood several statues, including the revolting satyr who had mocked me the night before. I spied a brick walkway under a collection of leaves. I was happy to see the landscaping company taking the initiative, cleaning up the limbs and leaves scattered on the ground. I gave a wave in their direction, mentally pledging to talk with them later.
I didn’t stop at the steps this time but walked right in like I owned the place. I found Matthews, sleeves rolled up and sweat on his brow, helping a young man open boxes in the front room. “Good morning!” I said cheerily, my ponytail swinging as I jumped in to help. After a brief discussion, I persuaded Matthews to allow me to relocate the computers for the inventory system to the back of the house. I reasoned that it would be cooler and, since I would later be working on the back of the property, in various sheds and buildings, more convenient for my team and me. Less walking and hauling around expensive equipment, I said. Truthfully, I think I just wanted to be in the Blue Room. Close to Muncie.
I met the general contractor, Terrence Dale, who insisted I call him TD. He was handsome in an earthy sort of way. He had lively brown eyes and a natural enthusiasm about life that was infectious. He seemed as excited as I was about restoring the home. Both of us were young and ready to earn our place in our respective arenas. According to him, he had fought long and hard to win the contract. With the recommendation of the Historical Society, he ultimately dominated the competition. He was only a little older than me, probably not thirty yet, but he had already worked on several local projects. I liked TD immediately and was glad to work with someone so knowledgeable and amiable. My part of the remodel would be only as a historical consultant, which left me with plenty of time to stay focused on my task. I couldn’t wait to get my hands dirty.
After hours of setting up passwords and permissions on the computer network, checking delivery dates and sending introductory emails, I begged off lunch and slipped away to take my own private tour of Seven Sisters, before the full team arrived and the hard work began. I wanted to feel the place, to reconnect with the past. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a psychic, but I don’t claim to understand how my dream life really works. My goal wasn’t just to give my client a catalog of inventory. I wanted to quietly honor and pay homage to the people who had once loved all these things. I’d already walked through much of the ground floor during the course of the day, including the Blue Room, the banquet hall, the massive ballroom and the two front parlors, but now I could take my time, free from questions and Hollis Matthews’ invading stare.