Girls of Brackenhill(36)
Hannah’s instinct now was to turn around, close the door. She’d avoided the study, kept herself busy with Aunt Fae’s lawyers, Alice, Wyatt, the remains found in the forest. Something about a life boiled down to paperwork, grinding it down to the pulp, felt too exposed. More intimacy than Hannah deserved.
But now, Aunt Fae was gone. Uncle Stuart was almost gone. Brackenhill was her responsibility, or at least it would be soon. The problem with living superficially was that the truth always lived in the deep. Truth lived in the mess. If she closed the door, walked away, she’d be passing a legacy of secrets down to her children, should she choose to ever have them. Normal people got married, like she was planning. Normal people even had children! She couldn’t imagine wading into motherhood with Brackenhill an albatross around her neck. No, she had to at least attempt to sort through it all, piece together her own history, where she came from, if she ever wanted to move forward. Figure out what had happened to Julia, Fae, Brackenhill. Ruby. Put all the pieces together and start her life, fresh and shiny and new.
In frustration, she jerked open the closet door. A small bookcase was pushed up against the back, and on the second-to-bottom shelf was a fireproof box, the key dangling from the lock. She retrieved the box, about the size of a large boot shoebox, and set it on the mahogany desk in the center of the room.
Hannah lifted the lid and saw folded squares of paper. Resting on top of the papers was a long brass key. The top contained a fleur-de-lis, and the key end was rectangular, notched. Hannah stood and traced her steps back to Ruby’s room. Inserting the key, she tried to relock the door. No luck. The key was for something else, but what? She pocketed it and returned to the study, sitting cross-legged once again on the floor.
She began unfolding the papers, running her index finger along each crease to flatten it. There were a handful of documents: passports, bank statements, a copy of the castle deed, Fae’s and Stuart’s birth certificates. No surprises.
But then:
Certificate of Surname Change: Fae Summer Turnbull to Fae Summer Webster
Date: April 17, 1991
Reason: Estrangement, psychological distress
Petition: Granted
And the second document of interest, a folded square of yellowed paper:
New York State Certificate of Vehicle Title
Year: 1989
Make: Dodge
Model: Ram
Name and Address of Owner: Warren Turnbull, 1442 West St, Rockwell, NY
Turnbull?
There was no marriage certificate. Hannah had two questions. Why had Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart not legally married?
Who the hell was Warren Turnbull?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Then
June 14, 2002
She met Wyatt every night after the pool closed, skimming her bike down the path away from Brackenhill toward town. She’d gotten bolder. Julia was off alone, whereabouts unknown, and Hannah refused to wait for her. Refused to kowtow to her sister, seek her out, beg her for company.
Besides, she had Wyatt. Wyatt with his quick smile, his teasing, the way he called her ghost girl, because she lived in the haunted mansion and he’d so desperately wanted to be invited up the mountain.
She waited for him to close up the snack stand, for the last of the pool goers to leave, corralling kids to cars as dusk settled around them, the light of day fading to purple, the air cooling just enough to make it easier to breathe.
“It’s the ghost girl.” Reggie came up behind her. Hannah had been sitting at the picnic table, waiting for Wyatt. They’d wander back to his father’s house for an hour or so before Hannah would bike furiously up the mountain, racing the clock for Aunt Fae’s dinner at eight p.m. Summer dinners were later, after the sun had started to set and the yard tools and wheelbarrows and tractors had been put away.
All the girls giggled around Reggie and Wyatt. Wyatt with his teasing charm and Reggie with his boyish face, cheeks ruddy from the sun, and white, straight smile. Reggie made Hannah uncomfortable; his gaze was so intense, like he was trying to see into her, and his smile looked like he was perpetually mocking. Hannah didn’t know how to respond to him, how to take him.
Ghost Girl was Wyatt’s nickname for her, not Reggie’s, and Hannah batted away a flash of annoyance. She gave him a quick smile.
“Waiting for your summer boy?” he asked and sat next to her, too close, his breath warm on her cheek.
“What are you doing here, man?” Wyatt emerged from the side door, carrying a garbage bag. He grinned at Reggie, but his eyes glinted.
“We’re going to Pinker’s,” Reggie said easily. The bar in town, notorious for not checking IDs, letting teenagers hang in the back room with the pool tables long after they should have been asked to leave. Sometimes, if the boys charmed the waitresses well enough, they’d snag a beer or two. “You in? I’ll wait.”
“Nah, I’m tired. Go on without me tonight.”
Reggie’s gaze flicked from Wyatt to Hannah and back. “You hanging out with Ghost Girl tonight?” His voice had an edge, something mean to it.
“I’m just waiting for Julia,” Hannah rushed to fill in, and Wyatt nodded once, small and approvingly.
“Ah, the two ghost girls.” Reggie stood, smacked his lips together, the silence awkward. “You can both come,” he said like he’d just thought of it.
“We have to get back. Our aunt makes dinner,” Hannah said.