I watch as that filthy saint, Roman Carter, limps to open the car door for her, and my anger swells. Can he feel it? See how complacent he is, smiling at my wife and new son. His sanctimony smells of dried ink and stale coffee. Jack, my dearest Jack should have killed him with that car. My hatred makes me want to tear loose an arrow of ironwork from an upper floor and shoot it into his heart. Let him collapse on my step, his eyes open to the thing that killed him, understanding. Finally understanding. But I will do nothing now. He will wait, as I have waited.
Now she puts that lovely leg out of the car. Still, I would touch that leg, wrap it in mine, and press naked against that yielding ivory skin. I might whisper in her ear, telling her what I was about to do so I could see the terror in her once-adoring eyes, then tear at the curve of her proud neck with my teeth, rending her flesh, exposing her lying throat to the flies.
But I am patient. I have no need of that sort of violence. Once I needed a stage, but now my breaths, my words are the creaking of a door and a draft in the great hall where I once loved to play. My sighs are the glinting of the stars covering the dome. My audience is every thing, every person who lives and has died here. And there are the others. The ones who have never lived but are welcome in this place.
Look how carefully she cradles my newborn son, tucking the corners of the blanket around him despite the heat rising in waves from the hood of the ticking car and the patio stones. So precious to her. Precious to me.
I can sense my father smiling at his name.
There’s so much I need to show my son. So much I need to teach him, as I was taught. My need to touch him swells, pushing against the inner walls of the house, causing even the paintings to shudder with my frustration. For an eternity I have kept my peace, waiting for him. Even now, there is no one inside to hear. Everyone is outside, anxious to greet him.
Charlotte, look what you have stolen from me! I would be there beside you, but you were selfish. Like my mother, who plagues me still. Yes, she is here with me. With Eva.
Hold my son just so, Charlotte. Will you give me that? I want to see his eyes, and he’s hiding them from the brutal sun. He will have my eyes. He will have my strength because I will give it to him. You will not stop me.
Finally, finally! The odious Roman opens the front door. Can you hear me, my son? Can you hear me welcoming you? Can you hear the chorus of voices welcoming you home? Now that you are inside me, I will sigh, cooling you with my breath.
Welcome, my son. Welcome, Randolph.
Acknowledgments
Charlotte’s Story comes into the world borne by so many lovely people who deserve far more than my grateful thanks.
Susan Raihofer, my most wonderful agent from the David Black Literary Agency. We’ve grown into this business together, and I couldn’t have a better partner in literary crime. Sometimes we even talk about work when she calls.
Maggie Daniel Caldwell, the friend of my heart, who tells me tales of the beach and life and love, and always makes me laugh.
J.T. Ellison, who keeps me sane and wondering how she has time to do all the amazing things she does while also being the perfect friend, therapist, and publishing mentor.
Carolyn Haines, who has the best stories, a generous heart, and a contagious enthusiasm that overwhelms even my darkest moods.
The brilliant group at Pegasus, especially my thoughtful editor, Jessica Case, who made my dream of a haunted house full of stories come true, and always makes the stories better. Also, publisher Claiborne Hancock and marketing maven/editor Iris Blasi.
Henry Sene Yee has produced yet another cover that haunts me in just the same way that Bliss House does. Maria Fernandez created the elegant interior design.
Living the life of a country mom and writer, I don’t get out much. My days are always enriched by the delightful women who give me so much online and handwritten encouragement, including Elizabeth “Lyzz” Pickle, Sue Spina, Leta Sontag, Judy Daniel, Lauren Winters O’Brien, Brandee Crisp, and my dearest Jen Talty.
All hail the Nashville literary crew: editor Blake Leyers, and writers Paige Crutcher, and Ariel Lawhon, who crack me up every time.
Jennifer Jordan, editor, writer, and encourager, who keeps me cheered with all manner of critter cuteness and reminded me that Emily D. always has just the right words.
Writer Ashley Malick, who cleverly named the town of Clareston.
My parents, Judy and Jerry Philpot, who cheer me on and inspire me every day.
Ann and Cleve Benedict, whose Virginia/Other Virginia love story always makes me smile.
My sisters, Teresa McGrath and Monica Wilmsen, who—after years of my tormenting them with big-sister advice—still tolerate me and take my calls. Thank God for them both.
Cleveland Benedict II fills my day with joy and jokes. Plus, he still gives me hugs, though he wouldn’t want me to tell you that.
Nora Benedict is the music in my life. Play on, sweet girl.
There would be no books without my dearest Pinckney. No sunshine, either. He has all my love.