Chapter 4
4
Gatlin
I ’m overwhelmed.
At least I could admit it. If there was one thing that I’d learned from the hospital-provided hospice therapist, it was to acknowledge my emotional state and not avoid it. I was out of my depth. I no longer thought Gemmy was going to die. Today's visit gave me so much hope that I finally let go of all that edgy uncertainty I had been swimming in the last few years. I’d found dry, stable land, and yet I didn’t trust where I had landed.
I stared at the honest-to-God hedge maze behind my Boo Hag bride’s Georgian-style estate. Not a Georgian revival but a house built in the eighteen hundreds by her parents. Where she grew up. Duvall House was huge. Three stories, an entrance hall, six bedrooms including the attic rooms, a master suite, four bathrooms, a drawing room, parlor, kitchen, study, library, formal dining room, living room, and music room. That was just inside the red brick masterpiece. Besides the hedge maze out back, there was a heated pool, a separate building housing a personal gym, and a sunroom she thought I might like.
She bought me paint.
I still couldn’t believe that she had converted a bedroom into an art studio for my use and filled it with potential—paper, pans of paints, mediums I could crush and muddle into my own colors, and canvases from the size of my palm to almost as tall as me.
“I own a gallery,” she said as I slowly turned in my new space, “I want you to have a show there when you are ready, even if it’s after our year together. I hope this time will help you create.”
I didn’t understand. Why did she care?
I had everything I couldn’t live without brought to her estate. I know that included my art supplies. I watched the probably supernatural movers load them into the moving van. She didn’t have to buy me––
I understood the clothes; I couldn’t afford to dress the way she would need me to for social events, her club. I got that.
My art mattered to me, but it didn’t do anything for her. One of my paintings couldn’t impress the people she had to work with; an art show by an unknown artist wouldn’t bring in any impressive income. Being bonded to a human might be a novelty, sure.
When was the last time I bought paint? Sketched? Was she trying to make me happy?
I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. It circled in my mind like it was stuck in that hedge maze out there, and I couldn’t understand how the kindest thing to happen to me in the last five years was at the hands of a monster who was quite literally doing me all the favors–– for my company.
This feeling… was a self-worth problem. When did that start?
A knock at my door brought me out of my thoughts, and I turned from the window to the earth-toned bedroom I’d been given. The suite was a mixture of warm and cool tones, mahogany furniture, brass fixtures, and an impressive fireplace that had been converted to gas. It was like someone had typed in a search engine “male, bedroom, traditional,” and this room populated. It was okay, but I would be unpacking my personal stuff sooner than later.
“Coming!” I called to whoever was on the other side of the door.
Turning the cool glass knob, I opened my door to the hallway.
“Hello there, Gatlin, ready for dinner?” the haint Prudence asked.
“I am,” I replied, still unnerved that I could see the white and basil-green toile wallpaper through her body.
I followed the ghost down the hall. Palmer had explained that Prudence was a gray lady until mating with the love of her afterlife. Once she did, her color returned. Prudence was like a soft oil painting; her dress was a deep midnight blue, a black ribbon choker was wrapped around her neck, and her hair was styled in a soft bun.
“I hope,” she said, stopping at the staircase, “that you will like dinner. Mer doesn’t eat as much as she used to, so Cook got a bit excited with the preparations.”
“I’ve heard a few of the others call her Mer. Is that something she prefers?” I asked, walking down the steps as she glided alongside me.
“Oh no,” she laughed, a high tinkling sound that echoed around me oddly, “You don’t have to call her that unless you want to. It’s just a way to mesh both names, Merewynn Palmer, though I can’t imagine having so many birth names. Though I’ve always thought Palmer was a bit odd.” She nibbled her lip, which must be a hold-over habit from when she was alive. “I think it's because her mother knew she’d have to use a few in her lifetime; corporeal beings still have to pay taxes after all. Being dead has its perks.”
She gasped, placing a cool hand on my arm. I could feel a chill through my charcoal Henley. “I’m sorry, sir, how insensitive!”
I stifled a grin; patting her hand was a mind fuck, feeling something that should be solid and was not at all at the same time. “It’s fine, ma’am. My sister is doing better.”
How could I be mad at a ghost for enjoying being a ghost?
“Thank goodness for that,” she agreed as we hit the landing in tandem. We followed the new wallpaper, a textured fabric in eggshell. I tried not to gawk at the detailed molding, elaborate crystal chandeliers, and gold wall sconces. The walls were dotted with paintings in styles from multiple periods, not just Georgian, and I wondered if there were any reproductions or if they were all real––I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
“Here we are. If you need anything, let me know; it is literally my and my staff’s job to serve.” She passed me a card. Printed on it was her name, Prudence Galling, her position as head of housekeeping, the Wi-Fi password, and her phone number.
“You have a cellphone?” I asked, shocked.
“Oh yes, I do like to text! Juni says I take the emojis too far, but they are quite fun!” She giggled. “Text me whenever, and I’ll let whoever is on the clock know. If it’s after midnight, you might have to wait to the morning.”
“That’s fine,” I agreed, still stuck on a ghost having a phone number. How does a touch screen work for a spirit?
“Excellent, off you go!” She shooed me into the dining room.
I think I expected something like in Sense and Sensibility —candelabras everywhere, dark wood furniture, and pale fabric padded chairs. I didn’t expect the modern whitewashed oval table with plain white china set for two at the end, or the popular white, scoop-style dining chairs. The rest of the house had adapted the old, for instance, the lighting to electricity. I’m not sure why I pictured candles everywhere. It was already dark, but I imagined that in the spring and summer, the room would still be flooded with natural light. Right now, the curtains were drawn, the pale robin’s egg blue damask-patterned walls still vibrant in the warm light. Another fireplace was on the back wall, and a white three-piece living room set was arranged around a coffee table in front.
My heart beat a little faster at the thought that Palmer most likely could eat and feed in the same room. Of course she can. It’s her home; it should be set up for her needs.
I dragged my eyes away from the setup to the two settings and no Palmer.
A cough behind me had me turning to a thin, waif-like man, his skin pale like a corpse. He was dressed in skinny jeans with a chain looping from his belt loop to his back pocket and a black chef's top. His blue hair was pulled back, a black fitted ball cap on his head.
“Hey, man, I’m Cook by name and by trade. I wanted to introduce myself before you ate dinner.” He walked to me, hand extended.
We shook, his hands warmer than I expected.
“I’m Gatlin. It’s nice to meet you,” I replied, releasing his hand and taking a step back.
“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am all about food. I’m a bit more health-minded than my brethren, but considering the big changes in your life, I thought we might go for a favorite? I’ve got fried chicken, lacy cornbread, green beans, baked macaroni and cheese, corn on the cob, dill pickle potato salad, and a peach cobbler for dessert.”
I felt my mouth flood with saliva.
Cook laughed knowingly. “I feel I should be honest. I am a gluttony demon, and food is my vice. Knowing you are going to enjoy this meal really makes me feel appreciated.” He raised his hand, and I automatically gave him a high five, even though I was curious as to how he was supposed to be a demon and a glutton as well.
“Not everything is as it looks, and not everything is as history portrays, my friend. Enjoy your dinner, and if you have any requests, just shoot me a text.” Cook reached into his pocket and handed me another of those business cards.
His card read Cook Valentine along with his number and email address. This one was more of a business card as he offered himself as a “personal chef for special occasions and catering.” I slipped the card into my jeans alongside Prudence’s, wondering if everyone had business cards in the magic world.
Though, come to think of it, my Aetherian Council representative had a card too, but I thought it was because he was like a lawyer of sorts. He gave me Councilwoman Oxendine’s card for the Nyxian Council on the downlow. Does Palmer have a business card?
As if they’d been waiting for a signal, two women brought in a silver cart with covered dishes, the gentle clinking of lids bringing me from my thoughts. They placed the covered dishes in the middle of the table settings with serving utensils resting on each dish’s lid.
“We don’t usually stand on ceremony here, and we thought you’d be okay serving yourselves?” He raised a brow.
“Oh yeah, I’m used to family-style dinners unless we are eating at a sit-down restaurant,” I assured him.
“I knew I liked you. This is Diana and Hannah, and they help me in the kitchen.” He introduced the two women.
I couldn’t tell if they were haints or humans, but they each gave me a quick wave before hustling out the serving cart.
“Well, Palmer should be down in a bit; sometimes she forgets when she is working, so I’ll text her,” he offered, slipping a hand into his pocket.
“No need. I am here!” she called, sweeping into the room in a shapeless boxy dress that somehow clung to certain parts of her body in a way that had me appreciating the drape of the mauve fabric. She wore gold jewelry, and I saw a few gold rings on her toes winking from under the hem of the dress as she walked our way.
“Oh, it smells divine, Cook, thank you!” she praised, going to the table and uncovering the meal. “You all will have to join us tomorrow, as long as there are no objections?”
She looked at me, and I realized she was asking my permission. I remembered the vows we made: “From this day forward, a year and a day, will you revere Gatlin and esteem him as an equal in this bond? ”
I felt the heat rise to my ears. “I am not here to change your way of life, Palmer,” I said quietly, joining her at the table. “If everyone would rather eat with us tonight, I’m fine with that.”
“Nah, not tonight, my man.” He waved my concern off. “You need to start your monster education, and it’s better if you get it from her instead of all of us trying to butt in with our tidbits. But if you ever want to hear about Hell, I lived in Dis a few thousand years ago. I left you a book outside your room that I hope you’ll read and––”
“I will. I’m a big reader, actually; I just have a gym habit.” I chuckled, and so did he. “I appreciate the help navigating.”
“Yup, well, eat up and let me know what you think,” he said before walking out of the room.
That left Palmer and I alone in the room. We looked at each other awkwardly for a moment.
“Well, we should eat before it gets cold, correct?” She gestured, moving towards her seat.
I stopped her. “I know we aren’t married in the traditional sense, but I will pull out your chair, Palmer. I can get used to the driver because he has a job to do, but I get the doors, and I pull out the chairs.”
She blinked at me like I’d said something shocking, and I cleared my throat. “Unless that’s not equal?”
“No, no, you can do those things, but it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced that. I don’t see it on television anymore, so I assumed it was out of fashion.” She stepped back, allowing me to pull her chair out. She gracefully sank down into the egg-shaped seat as I slid it under her and into the table.
I pulled out my own chair, sitting in its surprisingly comfortable cradle.
We quietly served ourselves, but I noticed that Palmer’s portions were ridiculously small: a chicken wing, a single scoop of everything, and the smallest bit of lace cornbread I’ve ever seen. Cook must have made it that small on purpose, because I’ve never seen one that tiny.
“Do you… say grace?” she asked, clasping her hands together.
“I don’t really anymore, not since…” I trailed off, thinking of the angels I met from the Aetherian Council.
“Meeting them in the flesh does put a damper on things. I’d like to think the ones directly serving the higher powers are less jaded, but I don’t know. My father was Catholic, and I attend mass on holidays. Do you want to eat first or talk and eat?” she asked with an awkwardness that was endearing.
“I thought you had all this figured out,” I chuckled, taking a bite of the cornbread.
“Oh what, this?” She gestured between us. “No, sir. I’ve never bonded with anyone before. This will be a learning process for us both.”
We ate a few bites in silence.
“Cook mentioned books?” I asked, sipping the lemonade from my pilsner glass.
“Yes, we have an extensive library on folktales and monster history. I’m sure…” She trailed off. “I’ve seen what is online about my people. Thousands of years of history reduced to two stories. At least the Gullah people remember us, even if it’s not in the most flattering light.”
I set my glass down. “If you want, I can read about it, or…”
I was curious about my Boo Hag bride. Sitting like this and sharing a meal did a lot to alleviate my nerves. Maybe seeing her eat, even if they were small portions, made me realize she was more like me than not. Or it could be that in spite of everything, even as overwhelmed as I was, she had always been kind. Either way, I needed to know more if we were to get through the next year with good feelings.
And any woman, monster or not, deserves to live in her home comfortably.