Upstairs, Annie sits with Miss Watson. Tending her on her wedding day was always meant to be Annie’s job. She was meant to sit with Miss Watson as she readied herself while Grandma greeted the guests, Mama took their bags and wraps, and Caroline served the food.
Miss Watson arrived right on time for the wedding, except there’s no wedding to be had. She wouldn’t have Abraham in the room because him seeing her before they said “I do” would be bad luck, so he’s standing outside the door while Daddy fetches the sheriff. After Miss Watson arrived, Daddy whispered to Mama and Annie that Miss Watson likely didn’t mean no harm but there was no telling what she might do once she realized there would be no wedding. Best to have the sheriff see to her.
From her upstairs window, Annie watches the people below as Miss Watson steps into the wide skirt of her white dress, pulls the bodice up and over her narrow hips, and slips her arms through the lace sleeves. By this hour, folks have stopped taking pictures and hugging the bundles of lavender. Already they’re accustomed to the sweet smell and the beauty of it all, and they’ve turned to sipping whiskey and listening to Grandma instruct them on the proper uses of lavender.
Miss Watson sits on the edge of Caroline’s bed, her back straight, one hand holding her veil so it doesn’t slip out of place, the other holding a cigarette to her mouth.
“It was you up there,” Annie says, “wasn’t it?”
Miss Watson snubs out the cigarette, rubbing it until it snaps at the filter. Same as all those cigarettes Annie saw by the tobacco barn. It’s Miss Watson’s way of being careful. She’s always been a careful sort, so Annie must have scared her that night for her to drop the butt that was still smoldering.
“You going to tell Abraham?” she says, poking at the pins in her veil. Miss Watson used a dozen or more when securing that veil to her head, but still she’s afraid it’ll come loose. “I’m always fussing at him for smoking. It ruins the paint and dirties up the windows, you know. Wouldn’t do for him to find out I indulge myself. I’ll quit once we’re married.”
“Why?” Annie says, though she already knows why.
Growing older apparently doesn’t ease a person of self-doubt.
“He was always here,” she says. “More and more he was spending the night here. What man does that? Sleeps on another family’s sofa, lets another woman cook his meals? I just wanted to know why. I wanted to know he wasn’t going to leave me.”
“You didn’t see Aunt Juna at your house either,” Annie says. “Did you?”
“I was afraid,” Miss Watson says. “That’s true enough. All your talk of Juna coming home again. I was afraid she’d come for Abe or maybe come for me too. She was evil, you know? Evil through and through. That’s true enough.” She stops fussing with her veil and looks up at Annie. “I even started being afraid of you. Saw you with Ryce that day at the field, and I thought he was looking at you like my Abe used to look at Juna.” Then Miss Watson points one of her hairpins at Annie. “You know she’ll come back one day, that aunt of yours. And I’ll be happy not to be living here when she does. Abe and I, we’re moving to Lexington, did you know?”
“And Mrs. Baine?” Annie says.
“Didn’t even see her,” Miss Watson says, standing at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Could have been dead the whole time I was up there. I didn’t even see her.”
Annie will never know why Mrs. Baine was out there with that gun the night Annie ascended. She may have been waiting for Annie like the sheriff suspected. Or maybe, and this is how Annie will choose to remember it, Mrs. Baine had thought it was Juna standing there in the barn’s doorway, smoking those cigarettes, and she meant to protect the Holleran family.
The door opens, and Mama sticks her head in. “It’s time, Abigail,” meaning the sheriff is here. He’ll take Abigail home, that’s what Mama said, and see to her until she’s well again.
“Hold up,” Annie says.
Miss Watson stands and brushes at the pleats of her white dress while Annie pulls open her top dresser drawer. It’s still there behind her Sunday stockings, exactly like the one Ryce Fulkerson had brought for her. The chalky white frog is wrapped in a white kerchief. She lifts it gently, cradles it with both hands, and steps up to Miss Watson.
Miss Watson believes. Like Abraham, Miss Watson believes in Annie’s know-how.
“You might find yourself worrying about Juna Crowley again one day or feeling somewhat lonely,” Annie says, laying the kerchief and its contents in Miss Watson’s outstretched hand. “Grind this up if you do and sprinkle it on your head. Maybe right before you go to sleep. You’ll feel well by morning and never have another worry about Juna Crowley because you’re probably right. She’ll come back one day.”
Annie says that last part so Miss Watson will never want to come here again.
Miss Watson repeats Annie’s directions so she’ll be sure to do it right and tucks the kerchief in the white satin handbag hung from her forearm.
“You won’t tell about the cigarettes, will you?”