5. Keaton Not a Ma’am
A walk with Salt is just what I need to clear my head. But, never having been to Beaufort, I have no idea where I’m going—or want to be going, for that matter. I feel like I need a drink, but it’s only 11 a.m. But I could get a bloody Mary and call it brunch… As I’m weighing my options, I turn the corner and Salt jumps onto an older woman on the sidewalk. “Salt, down!” I call. “Sit!” He relents but continues to stare at her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says, leaning down to pat his head. “Hello, Salt.”
She looks to be around my mother’s age—late sixties, early seventies. She has short, stylish hair that is that particularly gorgeous silver that I imagine only the very, very lucky get. She is wearing a dress that indicates she has just come from a very southern lady event. A church tea, perhaps. Maybe bridge?
She smiles, and the corners of her bright blue eyes crinkle. She is already tan for May. I can picture her being one of those women who dives effortlessly into the ocean as though she is very much at one with nature, like the dolphins pop up and lend their fins for her to hold onto so they can carry her along. I decide right then and there that while I’m in Beaufort I will take up swimming in the sound. I have established, after all, that I need hobbies.
I can tell she is studying me. Intently. And it is making me uncomfortable.
“I’m Violet Scott,” she says, as if realizing the way she is staring at me is weird.
“I’m Keaton Smith,” I say. “Well,” I add, pointing toward the house, “Keaton Saint James Smith.”
At that, Violet throws her arms around me, pulling me to her with so much force that I almost drop my grandmother’s notebook, which I forgot I’m still holding. I feel like I have to hug her back because it’s going to be more awkward if I don’t.
She pulls away, wiping tears from her eyes. “You are the spitting image of Rebecca Saint James.”
“Really?” No one has ever told me this. But then again, no one has ever told me much about my grandparents.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “I’m here to clean out their house, but…”
“It looks like they’re about to walk right back through the door, and it’s eerie?” She smiles through her tears.
I nod. “Oh my gosh. Yes! How did you know?”
“Everyone knows that house has been untouched since the seventies—” Violet’s eyes widen, and she points to the notebook. “Is that…?” She covers her mouth, and her eyes fill again.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just that Becks always carried that notebook with her. I’m just shocked it wasn’t in her purse when she—” She stops and clears her throat.
I get this tingly sensation all over.
“I always wondered what she was writing in that notebook,” Violet finishes. It feels like she was about to say something else and then changed her mind. But that’s a mystery for another day.
“Rebecca Saint James’s Guide to Entertaining,” Violet says wistfully, looking at the notebook like it’s her own family heirloom. “Oh, honey, she was famous for her dinner parties. They were the stuff of legend.”
“Really?”
She nods. “Oh, yes. Her summer suppers. She had one every week from Memorial Day until the end of August—her birthday weekend—and they were out of this world.”
I smile, loving this anecdote about the woman I never knew. “Did you go?” I ask.
Violet nods. “To the last one.” She bites her lip, and I realize she wishes she hadn’t said that. A chill runs through me.
She touches my arm. “Do you need help? With the house? I’m happy to help you. We all wanted to help after… Well, you know. But your mom and uncle asked us to just leave it be, so we did.”
I want to say yes and fall into the arms of this kind stranger who knew my grandparents. But I am, by all accounts, an adult. And this is something I should be able to handle. So I stand up straighter, gather my courage, and say, “Thank you, Violet, but I think I’m okay.”
She smiles and points to the house behind her. “Well, my husband and I are just right here. So if you need anything at all don’t hesitate.”
After she says goodbye, it takes everything inside of me to walk back to the house. I remind myself that I am here to do a job: sell a property, get a commission check. There is no such thing as ghosts.
But as I walk back into the kitchen, I hear a distinct scratching sound. Salt’s head shoots up, and I scream, which makes him bark. “This place is so haunted!” I shriek.
I gather all my courage and look up, making out the distinct flash of a bushy tail. Salt takes off, barking, and a squirrel scurries up on top of the counters. I shiver, wondering which is worse, a ghost or a rodent. As the squirrel runs across the counters I scream again, throwing the side door open, my eyes never leaving the animal. Maybe a squirrel in your kitchen is worse than a ghost.
The squirrel is still. Salt is quiet. They are in a standoff, and I feel myself start to breathe again because surely I can handle a squirrel. But then I turn toward the open glass-paned door that leads from the kitchen down to a side gate and scream again. A little boy—maybe ten or eleven?—with shaggy blond hair and big, inquisitive blue eyes is staring at me, totally still. So still that he can’t be human. I look down at Salt, whose eyes are pinned on him. Good. At least he can see him too. But he isn’t barking or jumping or doing any of his usual Salt things. And dogs can see the supernatural, right?
“Do you want me to get my pellet gun?” the maybe-ghost, maybe-child asks.
I reach my index finger out and put it on his shoulder. Flesh and bone. Thank goodness.
He looks at me curiously.
“I was making sure you were real,” I say. “You know, not a ghost.” He smiles, and I wince. “I’m sorry. I’m not really good at talking to kids.”
He shrugs. “You’re doing all right. So… pellet gun?”
“Um, I’m not sure what a pellet gun is, but I think no.”
He gives me an indulgent half-smile, like I’ve said something cute. “It’s for the squirrels. It won’t kill them, just kind of nudge them along.”
I look down at Salt, who is now stretched out on the floral vinyl floor. Some protector. There is a squirrel threatening to destroy the house. There is a strange (but cute!) kid in my kitchen. And the dog is just lying there.
Ghost boy grabs a broom that is standing in the corner. I want to tell him not to touch it. There is something sacred about this place, like it’s an archaeological dig, and if I can just leave everything exactly where it is, I can uncover the secrets of a lost civilization. He looks at me. “Um. You might want to go in the next room or something.”
“Are you sure? Because, I mean, you’re just a child and—”
“I’m a child who’s not afraid of a little squirrel.”
“Okay!” I shout, running through the door to my right, into the library—for the first time—and shivering all over.
“Come on, squirrely,” I hear him saying as I notice all the books in here. “I’m not going to hurt you. That’s good. Let’s just make our way outside.”
I hear the door slam and peek out of the library to see him walk back inside. “Is he gone?”
That indulgent half-smile. “Well, sure, that one is. But ma’am, I hate to tell you: when it comes to squirrels, where there’s one, there are more.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am.”
“I have to. Dad will get mad.”
“Well, tell him I’m only thirty-three, and I’m not a ma’am.”
He shrugs. “Hey, you know no one has been in this house for like a hundred years, right?”
Well, not exactly, but it sure feels like it. I take the broom from him and put it in the exact same spot where he found it, noticing how dusty it is. “Yeah. I know. I’m the granddaughter of the people who used to live here.”
“Oh yeah. My dad says they died. Sorry about that.”
I’m about to say it’s okay, that I never knew them, but as if the aforementioned dad senses we’re discussing him, I hear a man’s voice calling from the other side of the fence. “Anderson!”
“Are you Anderson?”
He nods.
“Coming, Dad!”
Before Anderson can leave, a man in a rumpled work shirt opens the side gate that leads from his driveway to my porch. My porch. How have I already become so possessive over this place? It seems absurd, considering that I didn’t even know there was a gate until like three minutes ago. At any rate, it only takes me about two seconds to realize that this man is really something to see. His dark hair—shorter than Anderson’s but still just as shaggy—bounces when he jogs up my back steps, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize he has his son’s same blue eyes—or vice versa, I suppose.
I smile beguilingly, even though he is obviously someone’s dad and likely married. And if he’s not, he’s probably some sort of lunatic, because clearly that is all I have the capacity to be attracted to. Before I can introduce myself with something charming, hot stranger-dad says, “What are you doing with my son?”
I am immediately defensive. “Um, excuse me, your son is practically an intruder in my home.” Then I look down at Anderson and realize I might get him in trouble. “But now we’re basically friends.” Mad dad glares at me as I trail off with, “As one sometimes becomes with intruders…”
“I was just helping her with her squirrels, Dad.”
He finally looks around and, stepping over the threshold, says, “Oh my God. I thought it was just another stupid urban legend, but people are right. No one has touched this house since 1976.” Then, still not really acknowledging my presence, he says, “Come on, Anderson. We’ve got to go.”
He walks out the side door. No tell the nice lady bye or anything. He acts like I am a kidnapper. Where does he get off? I am a ma’am for god’s sake. Evidently. Anderson looks up apologetically. “Well, I better go.”
“I don’t think your dad likes me,” I say, feeling kind of sulky, which is stupid. The guy doesn’t even know me. What do I care if he likes me? Only, I do care. I need people to like me.
“Oh, he doesn’t like anyone but me, so I wouldn’t take it personal.”
That is when I notice Anderson’s freckles, and I immediately wonder if his dad has those same freckles under his layer of scruff. I give myself a mental kick. You don’t wonder things like that about people’s dads.
“Oh, I bet he likes your mom,” I say, trying to get a hold of myself.
Anderson shakes his head. “I don’t have a mom.”
I gasp. “Oh, gosh. Did she die?”
“You’re right. No ma’am would ever ask me if my mom is dead.”
I grimace. “I’m sorry. See, I told you—not great at talking to kids. But I mean… You didn’t really answer.”
He shakes his head. “She left us when I was a baby. Dad and I don’t ever talk about her, so it’s just like I never had one.”
Huh. Well, now, that’s interesting. “I’m Keaton by the way,” I say, figuring it’s past time to introduce myself. “And I’ll have lemonade and cookies for you next time. I’m just, um, not quite prepared for company.”
We both look around the kitchen, and it is clear that even though he is under five feet tall, Anderson feels my pain.
“Okay, well, I’ll come check on you later.”
It is so cute and kind, I almost burst into tears.
Anderson starts toward the door and then stops, turning back. “Oh, and Keaton, I’m not a ghost. But just because I’m not doesn’t mean you don’t have them.”
I cross my arms. “Well, that’s just a huge help there. Thanks, Anderson.”
As he’s about to leave, the side gate opens again. “Violet!” Anderson shouts excitedly, running outside.
“My main man,” she says, ruffling his hair.
Violet walks in as Anderson waves goodbye. “I don’t want to intrude,” Violet says, “but when we were talking earlier you just seemed a little…”
“Terrified?” I fill in for her.
She laughs. “Like you’d seen a ghost.”
She hit the nail on the head. “Turned out to be a squirrel, actually,” I say. But I know that’s not what she means.
Violet looks around the kitchen, seeming dazed to find herself there. Then, as if she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, she wanders into the gorgeous paneled library crammed with books. You can tell by the way it’s arranged that this is a real library for real readers. The paneling in here isn’t the cheap 1970s stuff either. It’s the good stuff, and I can tell it has been here as long as the house itself. “Walnut?” I ask Violet. She’s obviously the kind of woman who can identify fine woods with one glance.
“Mahogany.”
A crystal rocks glass and a cigar rest on the end table by a leather chair. A leather notebook bearing the initials TSJ, crackled with age, is sitting there, face up. She runs her finger over it, as if afraid to disturb it.
“Your grandfather kept journals,” she says. “I’m sure you know he was a doctor.”
I nod. That, at least, I do know.
“But Townsend was good at everything. A real sportsman, the best-read man I’ve ever met…” She pauses and looks up at me intently. “And no man has ever loved a woman the way Townsend loved Rebecca Saint James.”
Suddenly, I feel less overwhelmed by this dark, dusty house than I am by the emotions swirling around inside me.
“Violet, this is insane.” I point. “The cigar he was smoking the night he died is sitting here. The chargers are still on the dinner table.”
Violet looks around. “Are you planning to take this on alone?”
I nod. I shouldn’t air our dirty laundry to a stranger, but I can’t help it. I can’t keep this inside. “Mom and Lon just left this place like this?”
“Your mom and your uncle had a tough road, sweetheart. We all appreciate that they’ve kept up the exterior of the house for the town, but none of us blames them for never coming back after their parents disappeared.”
Her words stop me in my tracks. “My grandparents died in a car crash,” I say definitively, spouting one of the only facts I know about them.
She looks sheepish. “Oh, right.”
I have established recently that I am a terrible judge of character, but even I can tell something is off here.
Violet pats my hand. “My dear, you have quite the task ahead. I don’t envy you. But just know that you are in a town that loves nothing more than to help. Like I said, we tried with your mom. We’ll try again with you.” She pauses. “There’s a group of us that meets every morning at the Dockhouse, on the waterfront, around eight to have coffee. The Dockhouse Dames. Some of your grandmother’s protégées are in our group, and you are welcome to join us anytime.”
My instant reaction is to shake my head no. I’ve gone my whole life knowing very little about my grandparents, and I don’t see any reason to start now. “Thank you, Violet. But I’m not planning on being here long.”
She shakes her head. “Well, honey, if you change your mind…”
As I follow her, she adds, “I can see myself out. I know the way well.”
I look around the kitchen again, the china stacked neatly, a bracelet in a dish by the sink, as if someone removed it to wash dishes and was planning to return for it. Right now, they’re just things. But I already get the feeling that, as the summer goes on, they might start to mean something to me. They might add up to a story. Only, it’s a story I’m not positive I want to know.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye and spot Anderson and his dad out the window, throwing a football back and forth. It’s such an innocent, sweet sight that I can’t help but smile. And I’m not thinking about my ghosts at all anymore. Instead, I am wondering what time the Dockhouse Dames end their morning coffee. Because, after what I assume will be a sleepless night, I might be too tired to get there by eight. I’d sworn I wouldn’t care. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. But now I’m dying to find out what happened to Anderson’s mom. And I can’t bear the thought of leaving without getting to know Rebecca and Townsend Saint James.
I walk back into the library, wondering about the people who sat here, who drank coffee by this fireplace, and journaled in this chair. I can’t help but perch myself on the end of this dusty, ancient, cognac-colored chair and pick up the journal beside me. Before I start to read, I consider if perhaps I’m invading my grandfather’s privacy. But then again, I am the very definition of lost right now, and I need a North Star. I need something to set me on my path. Don’t you have to know where you came from to figure out where you’re going? I look down at the journal and open it to the first page.
As Salt curls up at my feet and closes his eyes, exhausted from the morning’s excitement, I blink, surprised to see that instead of 1976 written at the top, the date is 1935. I begin to skim the words and phrases until my eyes lock on “Rebecca Bonner.” This must be my grandmother. And I know now that I can’t close the journal; I can’t look away. Without permission, I begin to hear the voice of a man I never knew. I finally have the concept of my grandfather. Of who he was. Of how much I lost never getting to hear his voice.