Chapter 8
After she showered, they met on the second floor outside the Daffodil Room, Edie’s room.
They called it that because of the delicate, pale yellow-and-green daffodil paper covering the walls.
Ingrid usually kept its door closed, only going in to clean once every other week.
She’d certainly never rifled through her grandmother’s closet. But today was different.
For so many reasons, Miles’s idea felt right.
Now as she opened the door and they tiptoed in, she took in the familiar art deco walnut bedroom set, the bed trimmed in white lace.
A pastel of a centaur hung over the black marble fireplace, the one that Ingrid always thought of as “Sexy Mr. Tumnus.” On the mantel below sat three silver-framed pictures: Edie with her husband, Ingrid’s grandfather.
Edie holding an adorable, toddler-aged Tess.
Edie, her arms wrapped around a twelve-year-old Ingrid, planting a kiss on her cheek.
There was no picture of Tess as an adult.
Miles was already sifting through Edie’s closet, eyeing each dress critically.
But he kept pulling out laughably out-of-style options: a full-length, double-knit pantsuit; a prairie dress made out of what looked like a patchwork quilt; a white-fringed minidress.
Everything was so old and smelled very musty.
Finally, Ingrid found a full-length, pale-yellow silk chiffon slip dress with a kimono style overshirt, both hand-painted with pink and green tulips, that smelled reasonably pleasant, and they agreed this was the best option.
While she arranged her hair in a twist, Miles found a pair of white patent leather sandals in the back of the closet.
One heel was a bit scuffed, and he pulled up the bottom of his T-shirt, spit on it, and polished the blocky heel.
“Ugh, Miles,” Ingrid said. “Stop.”
He winked and handed over the shoe. She applied a bit of makeup—blush, mascara, some lipstick—and when she spun before Miles for a final look, he held up a finger.
“Earrings.”
She kicked off the sandals and ran down to her altar room.
From the jewelry box on the breakfront, she selected a pair of white enameled dogwood blooms, clip-ons, the only kind Edie ever wore.
Ingrid picked up her bottle of Ana?s Ana?s, small and white with the peachy flowers that matched her dress and shook it.
There wasn’t much left of the perfume, and she probably shouldn’t have wasted it on a party, since she tried to only use it in her most sacred rituals, but what Miles had said made her think.
She needed Edie with her at the Loefflers’ tonight.
After all, her grandmother was the one who’d helped her with Sailor’s reading that day.
Ingrid carefully removed the cap and sprayed her neck once, then twice, closing her eyes as the mist hit her nose.
Edie, be here …
Be with me tonight.
Maybe it was just the dress, but Ingrid could feel her grandmother all around her.
She could smell her, and not just because of the perfume.
She could also smell the faint aroma of bacon that always clung to her.
The cherry almond of Jergens hand lotion.
The incense smoke that always permeated the air around her.
Edie was here, now, floating above her. Moving through her.
She put the cap back on the bottle, switched off the light, and ran back upstairs. Miles was waiting in the front hall, and Litha was perched on the staircase.
“Want me to walk you over?” Miles’s eyebrows converged over his nose. It was bent at the bridge from a childhood accident on his father’s shrimping boat. Ingrid didn’t know if he’d fallen or been hit by the trawling mechanism. Or been hit by his father. He didn’t talk much about those days.
She shook her head. It might be selfish of her, but she wanted Sailor Loeffler all to herself. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine,” she said, then was suddenly gripped by guilt. She clasped his hand. “Go get the money sitting on my dresser. It’s yours.”
He shook his head.
“Edie was there for me today, Miles, but you’re the reason I had that word in my head—ballast. You’re the reason I said it to her. The money’s yours.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
He opened the front door for her. She walked out onto the stoop, staring at the curving marble steps and iron banister that led down to the street. The street that led to the square that led to the mansion where her new friend, Sailor, waited for her help.
She took each step carefully, mindful of the slightly too-large sandals and chiffon fluttering around her feet.
The uneven brick sidewalk in front of the town house glistened.
It must’ve rained while she was getting ready, one of those brief Savannah showers.
She stopped. Touched her hair. She felt different somehow, like a new person.
“All gussied up and nowhere to go,” called a voice from behind her.
She turned. Next door, Dean Remington, in a crisp, blue seersucker suit and peach bow tie, tipped an imaginary hat to her from his front porch. He looked like a librarian with his head of graying curls and round tortoiseshell glasses.
“I’ve got somewhere to go,” she called back, airily. “Sailor Loeffler’s engagement party.”
He frowned. “No.” Naw, it came out.
“Yes,” she deadpanned and flounced away down the street past Taylor Square.
She might not have a full bank account, but her confidence overflowed.
Dean Remington would not be getting her house.
Nor would Gloria and Harmon Ledieu. She was going to pay all her bills soon and keep doing what she loved.
Sailor Loeffler had changed everything.
In the distance, she could see cars drawing toward Monterey Square, the southern end, where the Loeffler mansion lay. More people, dressed in suits and evening gowns that sparkled in the streetlamps, streamed down Drayton and Bull Streets in the direction of the house.
When Ingrid reached Monterey Square, she stepped up onto the curb. Ahead, in the center of the square beside the tall, white marble Pulaski monument, she saw Boney standing with his tour group. Miles’s group.
Boney was decked out in a black T-shirt, tailcoat, Converse, and top hat, making him look like some kind of goth ringmaster.
The group surrounding him was big, at least two dozen people, and they seemed especially boisterous.
Probably a bunch of bachelor and bachelorette parties.
Boney was holding his leather, finger-holding sachet aloft while he orated.
Several of the women in the group were giggling and eyeing him lasciviously.
He sent Ingrid a salute and she waved back.
But her conscience panged. With a group that size, Miles would’ve done well in tips.
She was glad she’d told him to take the day’s earnings.
She should also set aside some time for him tomorrow after work.
Make some banana bread and watch The Twilight Zone with him.
Tell him every detail about Sailor Loeffler’s engagement party.
No. She’d do one better than that.
She’d bring him something from the Loeffler house. A gift, like the odds and ends he was always bringing her. Just a little thing, nothing major. A stack of monogrammed cocktail napkins or a book of matches. A reminder that she valued him. That she appreciated his friendship and all he did for her.
She squared herself and lifted her chin, feeling the wisps of her updo tickle the back of her neck. As she walked down the path, past the towering monument, toward the house blazing with light, she caught a bit of Boney’s spiel.
“Beware, my friends, beware. Henceforth, you venture onto sacred ground, the domain of those who see beyond the veil, the domain of the dead …”