The Burnt Island Burial Ground Part 5

"I'm sorry, Simmy," Lindsay said quickly, casting her eyes down in shame. "I didn't mean to be so sharp."

Lindsay found, inexplicably, that she was almost on the verge of tears. Every time she thought she'd faced down all the demons of her childhood, they proved that they were simply lurking just below the surface. Her parents had been arrested when she was still a young child, and she'd grown up with her aloof great aunt in a loveless home on North Carolina's Outer Banks. Even after her parents' release, her mother's mercurial presence and frequent, painful absences, had been a constant source of sorrow for Lindsay.

During the process of training to become a chaplain, psychological wounds like this were dragged to the surface, examined, and laid out to bleach in the sunlight of self-awareness. But Lindsay always felt that somehow she'd slipped through training by making the right noises. Like she had been able to hum along with the choir, but she had never learned to read the sheet music.

"It's probably a bit of both for some people," Dunette said, diplomatically. "Like some folks can eat Twinkies all day long and be okay, and other ones get diabetes if they do it. Some women just go toward that kind of man and then lose all their sense. I think you're right, that you do have to try to cut people some slack as much as you can, but you also can't ignore it when they do wrong. Lord knows it's hard to know when to forgive, and when to say enough's enough. Especially when it comes to family."

As usual, Simmy was able to brush away the unpleasant atmosphere without missing a beat. "Lindsay tells me you used to work for an older gentleman?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Boughtflower."

"How long were you with him? Did you get to know him well?" Simmy asked.

"As well as you can know somebody who doesn't want to be known. Sometimes, I become good friends with the people I work for, but Mr. Boughtflower wasn't the being friends type. He liked to keep things professional."

"And his family? Do you know them well?" Lindsay said.

"I got to know his daughter, Margo. She was always nice to me."

"Did she and Mr. Boughtflower get along?" Lindsay asked. She was trying to get to the bottom of his strange comments during the night, but without directly asking a question like, "So, did he ever mention stealing from somebody and then getting rid of their corpse?"

Simmy looked slightly confused by Lindsay's line of questioning, but Dunette answered immediately, as if she expected a certain degree of nosiness from potential employers. "I don't want y'all to think I gossip about the people I work for," she said.

"Now, now, gossip is one of the acceptable topics," Simmy said.

Dunette smiled, but hesitated.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Lindsay said. "I spoke to Mr. Boughtflower yesterday and he said a few things about his family that made me curious about them."

"Well, since you're a minister and all, I expect you won't be blabbing all over town. It seemed to me that Margo caught the worst end of Boughtflower's temper. Not directly, mind you, but she was always trying to get in between her daddy and her husband. She seemed to take it as her lot in life, though, like she'd been born to suffer. She was the same with her husband and daughter. Spent all day at everybody's beck and call, and I never once heard a please nor a thank you from any of them."

They all sipped their drinks for a moment, grimacing at the chalkiness of the powdered hot chocolate mix.

"It's no wonder they offer this stuff for free," Lindsay said, sticking her tongue out. "I don't know why I always drink it, even though I know better."

Simmy laughed. "All the food in here is supposed to be low salt and low fat. I once asked one of the cafeteria workers how they can even make cocoa with no milk or chocolate in it. She just winked at me and said it was an old family recipe."

"Who's her family? The Witches of Salem?" Dunette said. When their laughter died down, Dunette asked. "Is there anything else y'all want to ask me?"

Lindsay looked at Simmy, who flashed a smile and gave a quick nod.

"Just one more question," Lindsay said. "Can you start next week?"

The way back to her father's house from the rehab center led straight past the home Lindsay's friend Anna and her new husband, Drew, had just moved into. Anna was out in front of the house, digging what looked like a long trench in the front yard.

Lindsay pulled her car into the driveway and hopped out. "Preparing for the Battle of the Somme?" she asked, gesturing to the ditch.

Anna forced the shovel into the ground where it was left standing straight up like a fence post. She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked over to Lindsay. "We have a groundhog."

"And your plan is what? To unearth it and beat it to death with your shovel?" Lindsay asked, frowning.

"I hadn't totally thought it through, but yeah, something like that. This whole homeownership thing is way harder than I thought. Planting a garden was supposed to be this wholesome thing, but there's nothing wholesome about how I feel right now. What the deer don't eat, they trample. What the deer don't eat or trample, the rabbits eat or trample. And now this d.a.m.n groundhog digs up the yard we just paid $500 to aerate and reseed. I'm gonna put his little head on a spike as a warning to the others." She suddenly stopped talking and her expression transformed from anger to angst. "Oh c.r.a.p! I haven't even congratulated you in person yet on your engagement!" She hugged Lindsay and began to sniffle. "I can't believe you're getting married and we haven't even celebrated yet. We were going to invite you two over for dinner. And it was your birthday, and I was so busy at work I forgot to call. I'm such a terrible friend."

"Um, Anna," Lindsay said, her brow furrowing. Anna was a top athlete, an ER doctor, and a serial perfectionist. Now, however, her usual calm, unflappable demeanor seemed decidedly flapped. "Are you still doing those fertility hormone shots?"

Anna wiped away a mixture of sweat and tears, smearing dirt across her cheek in the process. "I'm a hot mess, aren't I? I don't know how much longer I can do this. Drew's afraid to even come home. He's started calling me from the driveway to make sure it's safe to come inside."

Anna and Drew desperately wanted a baby, and because Anna had recently celebrated her forty-first birthday, she had started hormone injections in the hope it would boost her chances of conceiving.

"Why don't you come in?" Anna said. "You should have some champagne to celebrate your birthday and engagement. I'm not supposed to drink to help my chance of conceiving, not that it matters anyway since my ovaries are so ancient they should be in the Smithsonian."

"I'm sorry you're going through this, Anna," Lindsay said, squeezing her friend's arm.

"Don't get all chaplain-y on me. You'll make me start crying again," Anna replied, swatting her hand away.

"Fine," Lindsay said. "I'll get drunk and then we can come out here and beat up some innocent forest creatures together."

"Innocent?! After I planted twenty hydrangea bushes because the guy at the garden center told us 'deer don't eat hydrangeas'?"

"You're right. Let's get these furry b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. You hear that, Groundhog?" Lindsay yelled toward the trench. She grabbed hold of the shovel and held it up like a maniacal villager wielding a pitchfork. "You better run or we're gonna put you six feet under ground." She placed her knuckle against her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Actually, he'd probably like that."

When they walked into the house, Lindsay saw Anna's teenage nephew, Owen, framed in the light of the fridge door. When Lindsay had first met him only a few months before, the seventeen-year-old had seemed stretched out, so tall and thin he looked like a rubber band about to snap. Back then, his tight halo of dreadlocks had reminded her of the feathers on the end of a long-handled duster. Over the past few months, however, he'd filled out into a muscular and handsome young man. As evidence of this transformation, whenever Lindsay had seen him out in public lately, he was trailed by a procession of moony-eyed, teenage girls and preening boys who wanted to be seen alongside him.

"Hey, Owen," she said. "I saw your car out front."

"Oh, hey, Lindsay," Owen replied. He turned to face her, balancing a bowl of fruit salad, a container of hummus, and a pitcher full of lemonade in his arms. He closed the fridge door with his knee as he set the food out on the counter. "We just stopped by on our way home from school."

Since Owen and his father, Mike, had relocated to Mount Moriah a few months previously, the boy had become a constant fixture in Anna and Drew's house. Almost every time Lindsay visited, Owen could be found draped over a sofa, or with his homework sprawled on the dining room table or, like today, rummaging in the kitchen for snacks.

"Okay if we take this stuff into the living room, Anna?" he asked.

"Sure, but you know where the Dust Buster is. Pita chips leave crumbs. Crumbs do not put me in a happy place."

"Who's 'we'?" Lindsay asked after Owen was out of earshot.

"Just the latest girl who is 'definitely not his girlfriend,' despite the fact that they spend every waking minute together. This one's a real piece of work. Owen's trying to play it cool, but it's obvious that she has him wrapped so tight around her finger, I'm surprised he isn't cutting off her circulation."

"Oh! Speaking of fingers, can you put on your doctor hat and look at mine? I meant to get one of the docs to look at it during my shift yesterday, but I never got the chance." Lindsay held out her hand for Anna to inspect. Her ring finger was so raw and blistered that it looked like it had been burned. It had now moved beyond merely itching to a constant, intense throbbing. "It got really swollen and now I can't budge my engagement ring."

Anna leaned over her friend's hand. "Jesus, Linds. This is one of the worst topical nickel reactions I've ever seen. How did you not notice that your finger looks like something that crawled out of a swamp in a horror movie? Why didn't you just take if off when this started?"

"It was kind of gradual. The ring was kind of tight to begin with, and my hands are always so dry and cracked from the constant hand washing and sanitizing at the hospital."

"This is really bad," Anna said, filling a basin with ice water and handing it to Lindsay. "Here. Soak." Anna left the room and returned a moment later with some dental floss and Vaseline. "Didn't you know you were allergic to nickel? It's a really common amalgam in gold jewelry."

"The only jewelry I ever wear is those silver hoop earrings my dad gave me for my graduation," Lindsay said.

Owen came back into the kitchen along with a stunningly beautiful girl that Lindsay immediately recognized as Jess, Otis Boughtflower's granddaughter.

"We're gonna head out, Anna," Owen said.

"Hi, Jess," Lindsay said. "Do you remember me? We met in the hospital chapel a few days ago."

Jess regarded her as if she were a long-lost bosom friend. "Of course!" She turned to Owen. "Reverend Lindsay was so sweet to me when I was upset about Grandpappy the other night."

"I heard your grandfather's doing a little better today," Lindsay said, not quite certain how to respond to Jess's over-the-top friendliness. "How are you doing with it all?"

Jess locked eyes with hers. For a moment, Jess's lower lip trembled, and Lindsay thought she might cry. But instead she broke into her radioactive smile. "How sweet of you to even worry about me. You're just the sweetest. Isn't she sweet, Owen?" She briefly rested her fingers on his arm when she spoke.

Owen nodded enthusiastically, unconsciously touching the place on his arm where her fingers had just been.

"Well, that settles it then. Lindsay is, in fact, the sweetest," Anna said. "She's so d.a.m.n sweet, sometimes my pancreas feels inadequate in her presence."

Lindsay glared at her.

"What's going on with your hand?" Owen asked, gesturing to the bowl of ice water in which her fingers were submerged.

"I'm allergic to my engagement ring," Lindsay replied.

"Oh," Jess said, her amber eyes widening. "That's probably a sign." She flashed her sparkling white teeth at Lindsay, and then called over her shoulder. "Come on, Owen."

Jess breezed out of the room with Owen trailing behind her like an obedient dog.

"See what I mean about them?" Anna said. "Mike's convinced that she only hangs out with Owen to get rides in his car and p.i.s.s off her father. Apparently he doesn't like her dating Owen. The guy's really old fashioned."

"Is her dad some kind of weird religious nut or something? Preventing seventeen and eighteen-year-olds from dating in this day and age seems beyond old fashioned," Lindsay said.

"Oh, did I say he was 'old fashioned'? I misp.r.o.nounced that. I meant 'racist a.s.shole.' From what I gather, the idea of Jess having a mixed-race boyfriend really gets to him."

"Maybe she's with Owen because she likes him. He's a great kid."

Anna frowned. "Hard to tell. You should see them together. It's all, 'Owen, I really wanted a c.o.ke Zero. All they have is Diet c.o.ke.'" Anna imitated Jess's imperious manner with perfect precision. "Before you know it, he's. .h.i.t every grocery store in Alamance County to find what she wants. If that's how she treats someone she likes, I can't imagine how she treats her enemies."

"I definitely wouldn't want to be on her bad side."

"Looks like you don't have to worry then, because you're so darn sweet," Anna said with a smirk. "Okay, let's see that Cracker Jack ring of yours."

"You know what's weird? I helped Warren take his wedding ring off when we first met. His Vegas ring from Cynthia had gotten stuck on his finger. Maybe Jess was right that this is some kind of a sign."

Anna wound the floss around Lindsay's finger, compressing the swollen tissue just above the ring. "A sign of what? That you guys need to invest in hypoallergenic metal alloys? You can't seriously be taking relationship advice from that prissy paper doll."

"No, I mean maybe this is all too rushed," Lindsay said. "I threw up when he proposed. Did I tell you that? And now my skin is literally rejecting the ring. Maybe my subconscious is using my body to tell me this isn't right."

"Cast your mind back a few months. Remember when I was freaking out before my wedding, and you calmed me down and told me to quit trying to ruin a good thing? I'd give you that talk now, but it's probably easier if you just remember what you said and replace all the 'Annas' with 'Lindsays'."

"This is different. You were really stressed out with all the planning, and that whole fight you and Drew had was a big, weird misunderstanding. I haven't felt like myself ever since I said yes. I mean, Warren and Rob hate each other. Can I really have a best friend and a husband who can hardly be civil?"

"They're just jealous of each other. They'll get over it. They both want what's best for you."

"Well, I really don't think his mom likes me, either," Lindsay said.

"How can you say that? She raves over everything you do," Anna said.

"You can't hear it because you're not Southern. There's this thing Southern women do where they compliment you too much and you know they're lying. Like, if they say 'Cute haircut,' that's sincere. But if they're like, 'Did you get a new haircut? Honey, that is just so you! You'll have to tell me where you got that done,' you know they're faking."

Anna pressed her lips together. "I'll just have to take your word for that."

"And his sister is loony tunes," Lindsay continued. "What if that's genetic? I could be responsible for bringing another Tanner Satterwhite-White into the world."

"Wait," Anna said, pausing her ring-removal operation. "Warren's incredibly pale sister's name is Tanner Satterwhite-White?"

"Yeah, Gibb is Gibb White. She hyphenated," Lindsay said.

"You could always adopt."

"Anna, I'm serious," Lindsay said, frowning.

"Sorry. That's just really funny. Anyway, I think you're just having your normal commitment panic. I'd love to give you advice, but we both know that I'm really terrible at heartfelt advice. Sarcasm, I can do. And lately, I'm developing a new line in hormone-related screaming and crying. But heartfelt advice is not in my wheelhouse. You should probably talk to Geneva."

"Last I heard, Geneva was barfing her stomach inside out."

"Norovirus. I've probably seen a dozen cases in the Emergency Department this week," Anna said. "Well, I'll give you my best attempt at heartfelt advice then. Warren's a stand-up guy and he genuinely loves you. Not romance novel love, but the kind of real-deal ''til death do us part' thing. If a movie was made about him, some old-school dude like Clint Eastwood or John Wayne would probably play him."

"I just don't trust my instincts when it comes to men. I always mess up." Lindsay paused. "The ring hasn't moved at all, has it?"

Anna shook her head. "Now, I don't want you reading any cosmic signs into this, but you need to get this ring cut off ASAP. You're not getting enough circulation through the finger. I don't have the right tools, so you need to go to a jeweler or the hospital. Now, okay?"

Lindsay nodded.

Anna grabbed Lindsay's shoulders and looked her square in the face. "Linds, you could get nerve damage. h.e.l.l, you could lose the whole finger. Listen to me this time. Not like when you messed up your knee last year and then walked around on it for a week after I told you not to, and you ended up doing two months of physical therapy. Or when you tried to move your furniture by yourself last January when you had a bunch of broken ribs and reinjured them. Actually, screw it. I don't trust you. Get in the car. I'm driving you."

Chapter 8.

"No side trips," Anna said. "That ring is coming off."

"John said it's an emergency," Lindsay replied.

Lindsay was sitting in the pa.s.senger's seat of Anna's car, for once having complied with Anna's medical advice. Even she had to admit that her finger had taken on an unhealthy resemblance to an uncooked sausage link. They had been on their way to get the ring removed when Lindsay received an urgent text message from Rob's boyfriend, John Tatum, who was acting as the general contractor on her home renovation project. John had written that the county building inspector stopped by earlier that morning to give the final sign-off, but now apparently there was a problem.

"My finger will survive a slight detour," Lindsay said. "John isn't the crying wolf type."