The Wish Collector
Page 5
She got lost in her search, lost in the history on the screen in front of her, and before she knew it, the large clock on the wall told her several hours had passed, while her stomach told her—loudly—she’d missed lunch.
Ms. Dupre was speaking to a library patron on the other side of the room and Clara gave her a small wave before heading outside where the sky lay soft and blue against a fiery sun.
As she walked home, she admired the old, quaint homes along the street, painted in bright hues, embellished with ornate architectural details: scrolling corbels, hand-carved columns, formal molding, and large transom windows. Many of them had fallen to disrepair, the railings loose and sagging, flowering vines and bushes mixed with weeds overtaking the tiny yards, grand wooden doors cracked and faded. But even those homes still held beauty, and Clara felt a tug at her heart for all things in the great wide world that had been loved before and waited patiently to be loved again.
As she turned onto her street, Windisle Manor rose in her mind, the way it’d been depicted in the photos she’d seen: grand, striking . . . endless sugarcane fields fanned out around it.
She’d found several articles in the society pages from decades past, referencing parties and events held at the manor. Guests of those gatherings had praised the condition and beauty of the house and grounds, and the pictures offered proof of its grandeur. But in recent years, nothing whatsoever appeared in print regarding the plantation.
From what Clara could gather, there was no one living there—at least no one whose heart was still beating.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hello, Mrs. Lovett? This is Clara.”
“Oh hello, Clara dear. How’s New Orleans? How are you settling in?”
“It’s good. I’m settling in just fine.” Clara put a smile in her voice, determined to sound positive, even if she wasn’t truly settled. Yet.
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
“How is he today, Mrs. Lovett?”
There was a short pause before Mrs. Lovett answered, and her voice was lower than it’d been just a moment ago. “He had a bit of an episode yesterday.” When Clara began to cut in, Mrs. Lovett steamed ahead. “Oh, nothing major. He got a bit aggravated and threw his lunch tray. We gave him a sedative to calm him down and he’s still sleeping.”
Clara’s heart sank. She’d been hoping to speak to her dad, if only for a moment, just to hear his voice. Tears pricked her eyes. “Was he lucid at all yesterday?”
“Not yesterday, dear.” Clara could hear the regret in her words. She knew how much the sweet older nurse would have liked to give her good news. Clara had grown close to her in the time she’d spent in the care facility with her dad before she’d left for New Orleans.
“Will you call me later tonight if his condition changes?”
“Of course I will.”
They spoke for another minute and then said goodbye. Clara put her phone slowly back in her purse, a singular tear rolling down her cheek. She swiped at it, taking in a big, shaky breath. She was homesick—lonely—and she would have missed her father even under the best of circumstances. But to know that he was fading away day by day and she was so far away was like a knife carving into her heart.
Soon he’d be gone and she’d have missed the last few precious moments with him while his mind was still clear, while he still knew she was there. When the fog lifted, now and again, did he wonder where she was? Did he wonder why she’d deserted him when he needed her the most? Or did he recall that he’d told her to go? “Oh, Dad,” she whispered into the emptiness of her apartment.
Clara stood from the chair in her tiny kitchen, grabbing her purse. She needed air. She needed to escape the four walls closing in on her. Dancing helped her remember why she was here, helped her remember the willing sacrifices her father had made. But it was her day off, and anyway, her body needed the rest. She wished she had—
The thought cut off abruptly as she stepped out into the sultry New Orleans day, the word wish bouncing through her mind. She pulled out her phone and searched for Windisle Plantation, easily finding the address. A few minutes after that, an Uber was pulling up to the curb and she was on her way to the weeping wall.
Twenty minutes later when she stepped out of the car, the day had grown slightly breezy, the moving air feeling wonderful across her heated skin. Clara sighed with pleasure, breathing in the sweet, ripe scents of summer and enjoying the reprieve from the sweltering weather of the past few weeks.
Above her, the sky was cast in various shades of gray, the clouds ringed in a silvery glow. It looked as if there was going to be a summer storm. A flock of birds swept through the sparkling mist, one falling out of formation and trailing alone for a heartbeat before the rest of the group turned back, gathering their lost member, the whole of their pattern complete once more.
For a minute, Clara simply stood on the side of the narrow street, no cars in sight. She was surprised to find the street deserted. She’d pictured at least a few other people standing at the wall, wish in hand. She began walking toward the stone structure across from her, happy she’d chosen a day when she had the place to herself.
Clara wrapped her arms around her waist as she approached what she knew must be the weeping wall. It was an eight-foot-high stone structure ending in dense woods and high reedy grass near the edge of the Mississippi River on one side and the beginning of what had once been the sugar crops on the other, now a tangle of overgrowth.
The middle of the wall formed an open arch, barricaded by an iron gate. Wild roses spiraled through the bars, creating a thick tangle of green leaves, heavily thorned vines, and vibrant crimson flowers. There was something both lush and savage about it, and that strange chill—part fear, part excitement—skittered down her spine.
For a moment she simply stared, in awe of its size and that she was finally in front of the very thing she’d spent weeks pondering. If it were true that the wall wept, it wasn't weeping today. The stone was dry, its color reminding her of the sky above with its various hues of pewter and sterling. Thin slivers of platinum light shone through the cracks where mortar had broken away, the spots through which a wish could be slipped.
I wish . . .
I wish . . .
It was as if the whispers, the hopes . . . the prayers, still hung on the wind, suspended somehow as if they, too, were ghostly spirits forever trapped in the air surrounding this haunted place.
“Get a grip, Clara,” she murmured to herself. She’d always been drawn to stories. She loved learning the tales of the dance productions she was a part of. The romance and the heartache always fueled her creativity and helped her become the character. It was another reason, she supposed, that she was so drawn to the legend of Windisle, of Angelina Loreaux and her tragic tale.
But ghosts? Curses? She didn’t necessarily believe in any of that, although she didn’t dismiss it entirely either. But, in any case, it was the story at the heart of it all that intrigued her the most. And this was where it had all begun.
She approached tentatively, wonder mixing with breathless sadness. Placing her shaky hands upon the wall and leaning forward, she rested her cheek on the solid structure, her mind filled with hazy imaginings of what had happened beyond it.
The wall protected the house and the land from potentially harmful forces outside, but who had protected those contained within? Suddenly, Clara was completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that such harrowing anguish—not just Angelina's, but the slaves who had lived their lives there as well—had been experienced so close to the very spot where she now stood.
She wondered if their blood and their sweat was still mixed in the soil of the weed-ridden sugarcane fields and felt so full of grief she thought she might weep. She remembered crying as a little girl over a sad story she’d overheard on the news. Her father had wiped her tears and told her she couldn't always cry for the world or she’d be crying all the time.
"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"
And that's how Clara felt, standing before that wall . . . her heart drowning slowly.
She slipped her wish out of her pocket—the one she’d written in the Uber on the ride there, pausing at the soft sound of movement on the other side, a small animal perhaps, or maybe just plants rustling in the breeze. Or maybe it was Angelina, her ghostly spirit standing hopeful on the other side, waiting for the one who would somehow set her free.
Ms. Dupre was speaking to a library patron on the other side of the room and Clara gave her a small wave before heading outside where the sky lay soft and blue against a fiery sun.
As she walked home, she admired the old, quaint homes along the street, painted in bright hues, embellished with ornate architectural details: scrolling corbels, hand-carved columns, formal molding, and large transom windows. Many of them had fallen to disrepair, the railings loose and sagging, flowering vines and bushes mixed with weeds overtaking the tiny yards, grand wooden doors cracked and faded. But even those homes still held beauty, and Clara felt a tug at her heart for all things in the great wide world that had been loved before and waited patiently to be loved again.
As she turned onto her street, Windisle Manor rose in her mind, the way it’d been depicted in the photos she’d seen: grand, striking . . . endless sugarcane fields fanned out around it.
She’d found several articles in the society pages from decades past, referencing parties and events held at the manor. Guests of those gatherings had praised the condition and beauty of the house and grounds, and the pictures offered proof of its grandeur. But in recent years, nothing whatsoever appeared in print regarding the plantation.
From what Clara could gather, there was no one living there—at least no one whose heart was still beating.
CHAPTER TWO
“Hello, Mrs. Lovett? This is Clara.”
“Oh hello, Clara dear. How’s New Orleans? How are you settling in?”
“It’s good. I’m settling in just fine.” Clara put a smile in her voice, determined to sound positive, even if she wasn’t truly settled. Yet.
“I’m so glad to hear it.”
“How is he today, Mrs. Lovett?”
There was a short pause before Mrs. Lovett answered, and her voice was lower than it’d been just a moment ago. “He had a bit of an episode yesterday.” When Clara began to cut in, Mrs. Lovett steamed ahead. “Oh, nothing major. He got a bit aggravated and threw his lunch tray. We gave him a sedative to calm him down and he’s still sleeping.”
Clara’s heart sank. She’d been hoping to speak to her dad, if only for a moment, just to hear his voice. Tears pricked her eyes. “Was he lucid at all yesterday?”
“Not yesterday, dear.” Clara could hear the regret in her words. She knew how much the sweet older nurse would have liked to give her good news. Clara had grown close to her in the time she’d spent in the care facility with her dad before she’d left for New Orleans.
“Will you call me later tonight if his condition changes?”
“Of course I will.”
They spoke for another minute and then said goodbye. Clara put her phone slowly back in her purse, a singular tear rolling down her cheek. She swiped at it, taking in a big, shaky breath. She was homesick—lonely—and she would have missed her father even under the best of circumstances. But to know that he was fading away day by day and she was so far away was like a knife carving into her heart.
Soon he’d be gone and she’d have missed the last few precious moments with him while his mind was still clear, while he still knew she was there. When the fog lifted, now and again, did he wonder where she was? Did he wonder why she’d deserted him when he needed her the most? Or did he recall that he’d told her to go? “Oh, Dad,” she whispered into the emptiness of her apartment.
Clara stood from the chair in her tiny kitchen, grabbing her purse. She needed air. She needed to escape the four walls closing in on her. Dancing helped her remember why she was here, helped her remember the willing sacrifices her father had made. But it was her day off, and anyway, her body needed the rest. She wished she had—
The thought cut off abruptly as she stepped out into the sultry New Orleans day, the word wish bouncing through her mind. She pulled out her phone and searched for Windisle Plantation, easily finding the address. A few minutes after that, an Uber was pulling up to the curb and she was on her way to the weeping wall.
Twenty minutes later when she stepped out of the car, the day had grown slightly breezy, the moving air feeling wonderful across her heated skin. Clara sighed with pleasure, breathing in the sweet, ripe scents of summer and enjoying the reprieve from the sweltering weather of the past few weeks.
Above her, the sky was cast in various shades of gray, the clouds ringed in a silvery glow. It looked as if there was going to be a summer storm. A flock of birds swept through the sparkling mist, one falling out of formation and trailing alone for a heartbeat before the rest of the group turned back, gathering their lost member, the whole of their pattern complete once more.
For a minute, Clara simply stood on the side of the narrow street, no cars in sight. She was surprised to find the street deserted. She’d pictured at least a few other people standing at the wall, wish in hand. She began walking toward the stone structure across from her, happy she’d chosen a day when she had the place to herself.
Clara wrapped her arms around her waist as she approached what she knew must be the weeping wall. It was an eight-foot-high stone structure ending in dense woods and high reedy grass near the edge of the Mississippi River on one side and the beginning of what had once been the sugar crops on the other, now a tangle of overgrowth.
The middle of the wall formed an open arch, barricaded by an iron gate. Wild roses spiraled through the bars, creating a thick tangle of green leaves, heavily thorned vines, and vibrant crimson flowers. There was something both lush and savage about it, and that strange chill—part fear, part excitement—skittered down her spine.
For a moment she simply stared, in awe of its size and that she was finally in front of the very thing she’d spent weeks pondering. If it were true that the wall wept, it wasn't weeping today. The stone was dry, its color reminding her of the sky above with its various hues of pewter and sterling. Thin slivers of platinum light shone through the cracks where mortar had broken away, the spots through which a wish could be slipped.
I wish . . .
I wish . . .
It was as if the whispers, the hopes . . . the prayers, still hung on the wind, suspended somehow as if they, too, were ghostly spirits forever trapped in the air surrounding this haunted place.
“Get a grip, Clara,” she murmured to herself. She’d always been drawn to stories. She loved learning the tales of the dance productions she was a part of. The romance and the heartache always fueled her creativity and helped her become the character. It was another reason, she supposed, that she was so drawn to the legend of Windisle, of Angelina Loreaux and her tragic tale.
But ghosts? Curses? She didn’t necessarily believe in any of that, although she didn’t dismiss it entirely either. But, in any case, it was the story at the heart of it all that intrigued her the most. And this was where it had all begun.
She approached tentatively, wonder mixing with breathless sadness. Placing her shaky hands upon the wall and leaning forward, she rested her cheek on the solid structure, her mind filled with hazy imaginings of what had happened beyond it.
The wall protected the house and the land from potentially harmful forces outside, but who had protected those contained within? Suddenly, Clara was completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that such harrowing anguish—not just Angelina's, but the slaves who had lived their lives there as well—had been experienced so close to the very spot where she now stood.
She wondered if their blood and their sweat was still mixed in the soil of the weed-ridden sugarcane fields and felt so full of grief she thought she might weep. She remembered crying as a little girl over a sad story she’d overheard on the news. Her father had wiped her tears and told her she couldn't always cry for the world or she’d be crying all the time.
"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"
And that's how Clara felt, standing before that wall . . . her heart drowning slowly.
She slipped her wish out of her pocket—the one she’d written in the Uber on the ride there, pausing at the soft sound of movement on the other side, a small animal perhaps, or maybe just plants rustling in the breeze. Or maybe it was Angelina, her ghostly spirit standing hopeful on the other side, waiting for the one who would somehow set her free.
