Chapter 25
Jolie—present day
Anxiety flooded me as the gravel crunched under the tires.
The car swallowed up the road, moving closer to the giant abode in the decreasing distance.
It looked so different to what I remembered of its predecessor, and yet, eerily similar. The perfect descendant stood, proud and white. A grand manor with a wraparound porch and a vast balcony adorning the entire second floor, which immediately called your eyes to feast upon it.
I blinked, taking in my new home and its surroundings. The grassy field was still littered with daisies. The stream still flowed south. The trees, as always at this time of year, were edged with a beautiful shade of amber.
“What do you think?” he asked. . . my Woodrow.
He'd been himself for a full fifty seconds, ever since we turned down this road.
A switch during driving was the scariest thing I'd faced in days, and that was a blessing, as I'd been traveling with Hell, who, with his heavy foot, was all too eager to get us here. He’d been present since yesterday morning after a brief switch with Woodrow, who’d driven us for breakfast to some drive-through place.
The cop car trailing behind us brought him enough apprehension for him to need an escape.
Which, resulted in me traveling the rest of the journey with Hell and the kitten who constantly annoyed him by meowing nonstop.
Bushy tail, as I called the little guy, was asleep now, nestled comfortably in my lap.
His gentle purr rumbled as Woodrow reached over to smooth his ginger fur.
It was soothing for them both.
“I thought it burned down.” My thoughts came out loud.
“It did. It burned to the ground. This is a completely new house. For you. A place to call home.”
“Why here?” I wondered, gawking at the house getting larger and more overpowering as we got closer.
The seat of a swingset blew in the gentle breeze, giving the view an eerie, yet somehow, peaceful feel.
“The baby is here, and we already own the land. Plus, there's money buried everywhere. I saw my father burying thousands of dollars dozens of times.”
“From human sales?”
“That would be the obvious assumption.”
“And you're okay with spending that?”
“Some of it paid for the house. His job stole your life. His dirty money could give you it back.”
He pulled the parking brake and turned off the engine. The giant house now loomed above us.
“I can't save the world, Jolie. But I could save the person who means the world. . . to me.”
I gazed out the window, cranked down midway. The house was pretty and clean. A giant dollhouse for his little doll.
“Will you take me to see the baby?” My face softened, the ice that formed around my heart over the idea of living in this space melted as I focused on him wanting to be close to our baby.
And I wanted that, too.
A message from his mourning, surrounded by the angels of heaven, sat at the joining point of a grand white cross, the color not yet faded by the heat of Georgia. Baby pink rosaries hung around the cross' neck, the grass strands tickling Jesus's toes.
Pink flowers accompanied by daisies surrounded the memorial. Small drawings of the same flowers surrounded her name. Daizee Heaven. The little toys that she never got to play with, placed on her resting spot, brought a tear to my eye.
My fingers feathered my angel's toys.
“Hey, baby.” Woodrow kneeled behind me, his hand on the cross. He had a smile on his lips, but the expression didn't hide the sheen glossing his eyes. “I told you I'd bring Mommy to see you.”
The golden sun peeped through fluffy clouds, hugging us with its warmth.
Bushy Tail jumped and played, following a butterfly with the most beautiful wings—a creature he couldn't catch—through the flowers.
For a minute, he stole my attention, as I glanced around, uncomfortable over the idea of almost losing him in the longer strands of grass.
He popped up again, his head before the rest of him, and he made his way to Woodrow. If our baby had lived and grown into a little girl, would she have loved animals like her father? Would she be out here, playing with this kitten or any other furry friends?
With my thoughts heavily detailed by what could have been, I touched the wood, whispering a message to my baby that I kept personal. Even from Woodrow.
The guilt on me for not being able to protect her had crippled me for years, but as the sun caressed me with its glow, I felt lighter. I saw the blame for what it was. . . someone else's.
I felt her forgiveness. . . and a mother's love.
I stayed at her grave, talking over toys and singing lullabies. I hadn't sung in years. I left my voice on this land a long time ago, and I guess I got it back by returning here.
We stayed until the sun dipped, hiding behind the clouds, until Bushy Tail dropped to his back and fell asleep with his legs in the air. Woodrow tickled the cat's little belly, and realized, he hadn't fed the little guy since this morning when we stopped for breakfast.
My stomach rumbled, and it sounded like thunder as the clouds rolled across the sky.
Woodrow stood before me. He scooped up the kitten into his arms, and the small animal scaled his torso to climb onto his broad shoulders, where he did the loving little head bump we'd quickly become accustomed to.
Woodrow's hand reached out to me, and I took it. He pulled me up, my legs feeling like lead because I didn't want to leave our girl.
“Come with me; I have something else to show you.”
Curiosity had allowed him to guide me inside, where colors of white, pastel pinks, and loving lilacs all greeted me. The lack of clutter held appeal, as did the fact that there was no green or no darkness in sight.
I continued on, fingers stroking the softness of the newly plastered walls as I moved deeper into the house.
I could smell daisies, and not the ones breezing in from the door still open where Woodrow stood. Flowers inside the house, calling me forward.
Bushy tail ran off ahead of me, examining his new surroundings and not understanding the feel of the wooden floor beneath his feet as he skidded into the kitchen.
I followed him, slightly irked to find him sitting on the center island, washing his rear end with the tongue that would be all over me later.
A large vase sat in the center of the island, close to Bushy's butt.
Its glass base showed off long stems. Giant gerberas stood proudly, showing off big pink and white heads, matching the accessories scattered around.
The front door swung shut, a slight click in the distance.
Woodrow stepped into another doorway. The kitchen, somehow, felt warmer in his presence as his sexy side smile landed on me as I smelled the daisies.
“They weren’t plucked for nothing. You’ll see in time.
And you’ll find a bunch in almost every room of this house. ”
I nodded, not asking questions as I moved around to take in the details of the pretty room.
“It's very bright.” I admired the high gloss cabinets, fingers still trailing. I pushed a button on an already plugged-in coffee machine, and a vanilla latte began pouring into the cup set in place.
I continued around the space, having no interest in the drink I'd made.
My eyes snagged on another door, indented white panels carved into the wood and a golden doorknob engraved with flowers—a totem of the innocence concealed—made it look so different to how I remembered it, with its ruined wood that rattled with my screams. Bad memories poured over me and filled me to the brim like the coffee in the cup.
I reached for the knob, my thumb shaking as it brushed the engravings.
“Open it,” an instruction I didn't want to follow entered my ears.
My eyes answered, screaming, ‘absolutely fucking not!’
The hair on my neck lifted from my skin, emphasizing my fear.
“You'll be surprised.”
I looked at him, warily. Pleading to his softer side. Praying to Heaven, and hoping Hell didn't answer.
He didn't say anything else. He stayed, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, awaiting my decision.
My hand swallowed the pretty daisy design, and I turned the knob, squeezing hard enough to conceal my nerves as I ignored the fear churning in my gut. This morning's breakfast made threats to splatter the floor, and I suddenly wondered if I regretted eating like it would be my last meal.
“Trust me.”
I didn't trust him. . . all of a sudden. I feared there was a dark and sinister reason for me to go down there. But I pushed it away as I pushed the door wide.
My good eye spotted a crystal pull at the end of a long string. I tugged the crystal and light flooded down the wooden steps. I breathed easier under the illumination—something this room never had.
I found the courage to take the first step, and the heels of my sandals clacked against the wood as I moved downward over the others.
The scent of the room hit me first, just like with the pretty daisies. But it smelt so much different to before, when death and decay thrived down here.
My pace increased, knowing a nirvana of nostalgia awaited me. Hand on the stair rail, I swung around at the bottom, taking in my surroundings.
I breathed heavy, lost in wonderment. Not even distracted by Woodrow's feet moving closer. The sound of him sipping from a cup, drinking the latte I'd made, entered my ears, but it didn't echo in the room like all my pain used to, because the room was no longer empty.
I stepped forward, fingers brushing a book on the vast shelf filling the wall. I pulled out a book, then another, then another.
Cookbooks. So many cookery books, all Cuban cuisine. And so many herbs, their scent overpowering all the bad memories I had of this place. Of Woodrow's mother and father. And their abuse.
The aroma welcomed other memories. . . thoughts of my mom and dad drifted into the room, the house welcoming them into my new home.