That afternoon, Teresa stands outside the Mantecombe post office. She has just sent off the first draft of the memoir to her editor. She feels sad to be finished, but there is also an inner lightness, a sense of relief. It is rather like the euphoria one feels after a bout of the stomach flu, when there is nothing left to purge and the internal fireworks have subsided. Teresa tells herself to enjoy the sensation, since she knows that she’ll be revising great chunks of her writing as soon as Janine has read it.
The work of revision, however, is in the future. Right now she has hours of free time, and a date–well, let’s just call it a dinner– tomorrow with Father Michael. She should get something nice to wear, a swirly skirt, or a bright summer dress. Teresa decides to drive south as far as she can go today, all the way to Land’s End. The tourist towns in Cornwall will surely have some clothing stores. She returns to the Manor, packs an overnight bag, and leaves a note for Miss Micklewhite that she’ll be back tomorrow.
The traffic gets worse the closer Teresa gets to Penzance. While creeping along in a line of cars, Teresa muses over finishing the memoir. She knows the therapeutic value of writing; there are innumerable self-help books that recommend journaling, goal-setting, or some other type of writing to achieve clarity or release. The memoir has freed her of some weighty baggage. In particular, writing about the process of forgiving changed her. She had been inhabiting her past. Now the past is just that, past, and it has lost its grip. A new feeling is tickling the space between her ribs, like a fresh green sprout. She might, just possibly, call it peace.
What if Margaret forgave her father? Teresa wonders. The next thought comes in a flash of surprise: what if I write forgiveness into the story? What would happen to the real ghost if the story I write has a different ending? By the time Teresa finds a hotel and dinner, it is late. She lies awake in her hotel bed, her mind unable to let go of this new intriguing idea. She knows how she would write the scene. She can see it unfold as if on a cinema screen.
It takes place in Margaret’s room at the Manor House. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, giving light and warmth into the darkness of the room. Outside the window, it is still night. George sits slumped in a chair, dozing. Margaret is on the bed, a blanket thrown over her. Her skin is the color of skim milk, her face bruised and swollen. She stirs and opens her eyes. She sees George.
“Da?” she says. “Is that you?”
He snaps awake. “Margaret? Nooo, it can’t be!” He kneels at the bedside.
She lifts her hand, reaching out to him. “Da, where’s Lucas?”
“He’s alive, but he’s hurt some. He’s at a farm nearby, with a woman who’s a healer. She has a babe, too. She’s feeding Lucas.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She lapses into silence from the effort of talking. Then she says, “And Mary?”
“Died of a fever, three winters past.” George begins to weep. “Oh, Maggie, I’ve missed you these years. We treated you poorly, we did. Even Mary said so, before she died.”
Margaret squeezes his fingers. “It’s all right, Da. It’s over and gone. I knew you loved me.”
“Always did, always will, Maggie-pie.” He kisses her hand.
Here the film in Teresa’s imagining fades into blankness. Would it be too corny if Margaret turns to look out the window where dawn is beginning to show its light, and then dies? The camera could pan out the window, over the farm fields and down to the sea, where the wreck of the Maeve lies broken on the rocks. Teresa wrinkles her forehead. I’ll have to work on that part.
Teresa finally falls asleep. She will stay at the Manor to write Margaret’s story. She’ll do more research and see more of Father Michael. And maybe Father Michael will understand how Teresa’s life and Margaret’s life were meant to come together across time. How it had to be Teresa, with her own ghost and bearing the loss of her own child, who would uncover Margaret’s secret. And maybe Father Michael would also understand about the writing. That just like history is rearranged in textbooks to suit the particular slant of the government in power, memories can be rearranged as well. And if Father Michael is really astute, and truly compassionate, he might also understand how Teresa could write her own and Margaret’s way out of anger, into forgiveness and peace of heart. He might be a man like that. If he is, it could be a very good year.
Dear Readers,
I’d love to know your reactions to The Manor House. Please drop me a comment.
Salerno Enterprises did not go under. Not only did Angelina keep the business afloat, she also made shrewd investments. She found other markets for the olive oil, making the boycott by the stores in New York ineffective. When she was ready to retire, she turned over her position of CEO to Dolly. By that time, Dolly knew all the inner workings of Salerno Enterprises, and had some of her own innovations to contribute. Angelina went to live in Florida where she still resides with her three obnoxious Yorkshire terriers, Mimi, Fifi, and Lulu.
Cousin Alberto was released from prison. His sentence was reduced by five years for cooperative behavior. I saw him only once after that, at a restaurant. He did not appear to be a broken man, but he was definitely damaged. There was none of the old bravado. His dyed dark brown hair had gray peeking out along the part line. His smile startled me; he had false teeth! I guess the prison diet wasn’t that healthy, or maybe he offended a prisoner with a big fist.
Neither Debo nor Dolly ever married. Dolly lived with Jason for many years. He died of a heart attack two years ago. Debo finally wearied of police work in the City. Now she teaches classes at the New York Police Academy. The four of us, Dolly, Debo, Angelina, and I, get together twice every year, once at Christmastime in Florida, and again at Easter in New York City. I never did tell them about Father’s ghostly visits. At first I was too ashamed of my own role that caused his appearances, and then too much time went by to bring it up. When this memoir is published, we’re going to have plenty to talk about!
And Father? He never appeared to me again, but Dolly, who lives in our old apartment, swears that when she’s taking a shower, she hears him singing arias in the kitchen.
The sun is high in the window when Teresa wakes up from a blissfully deep and dreamless sleep. Before getting out of bed, she closes her eyes to better recall Margaret’s appearance. Now Teresa remembers that she did see Margaret’s shoes, a pair of sturdy leather boots, repaired and worn. One more detail comes to Teresa in the daylight. Margaret’s wrist was wrapped in a dark, stained cloth. Teresa shivers, remembering the reason for the bandage. Eddie Thomson’s version of the story seems to be true.
Teresa is hungry. She decides to have a real English breakfast at the cafe in town. She washes and dresses quickly, thinking of fried eggs and tomatoes, sausage, and toast. She is delighted to get a seat at a table by the window. She orders her breakfast while pushing down the guilty knowledge of how the heavy food will make her feel later on. She is sipping her first cup of tea and gazing out the window when Father Michael passes by. Here is the one person in Mantecombe she can tell about Margaret. Even if he doesn’t believe her, he will listen and keep her tale in confidence.
A moment later, Father Michael steps into the cafe. He sees Teresa just as she is lifting her hand to wave to him. He strides over to her table.
“What serendipity!” he says. “Miss Salerno! I was hoping to catch you. May I?” He indicates the chair opposite her.
“Please, Father Michael. Sit down.” She returns his broad smile. “I’m having the death-defying English breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
“That would be a pleasure, one that I allow myself to indulge in perhaps twice a year.” They laugh together. Teresa notices the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles.
“I have to confess, Miss Salerno, that I googled your publications after our last meeting.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and I found you to be quite a prolific writer. A good one, too, I might add. I read the articles you wrote on the effects of television on young children. Rather horrifying.”
Teresa finds her cheeks getting hot. When was the last time I blushed? she asks herself.
Father Michael leans forward over his teacup, his expression earnest. “But don’t you think there should be more longitudinal studies, ones that follow the children through their secondary schooling?”
“Absolutely. In fact, one of the teams of scientists that I interviewed is trying to get funding to do just that.”
Their conversation flows easily through breakfast, ranging from children and television, to the Middle East, to the New York Times Book Review that Father Michael reads weekly. Teresa joins him in laughter often during their talk. When he leans toward her to make a point, she catches a whiff of his after-shave, fresh and citrus-y. She likes everything about this man, his kind face, his intellect, and his zest for life.
Finally, the last cup of tea is drained, the plates are removed, the cafe is almost empty of customers.
“This has been a delightful meal,” Father Michael says, standing up. “I have another confession. I also googled your bio, Miss Salerno.”
“Oh, dear. I haven’t looked at it for months. I hope it wasn’t too pompous.” Or too revealing, she adds in her mind.
“Not at all. However, you have had quite an interesting life so far. And quite a few losses,” he adds after a pause.
“Yes, well…” she hesitates, embarrassed, and determines to google herself as soon as she gets back to the Manor. Then she gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh! Father Michael! I have the most amazing news about Mar— my research. I completely forgot that I wanted to tell you about it.”
“I should love to hear,” he says. Then wrinkling his brow, “Today I’m all booked up. I know! How about we have dinner tomorrow evening? There’s a little inn just north of here, quiet, good food. What do you say?”
“That would be lovely,” Teresa answers, her mind racing. Is this a date? What shall I wear?
“I’ll meet you in the Manor car park, at seven o’clock. How is that?”
“Perfect,” she says, smiling. “That will be perfect.”
Father’s ghost came to speak to me three more times in the next months. Each time the odor of his cigar alerted me to his presence, and each time he was harder to see, but easier to hear. It was as if he had to choose to focus his energy on only one mode of manifestation. The second appearance came only three days after the first. He hovered faintly in the corner by the chair
“You were a good sister, Teresa. You took care of the twins.”
Perhaps that took all the spirit energy he had, since he faded out before I could stop shivering and gather my wits. When at last I did, I spoke angry words to the spot where he’d been, hurling my rage into the dark room.
“Somebody had to take care of them! You were off in Italy for weeks on end, with Angelina, I suppose. And Mother was out with Cousin Alberto. You were total losers as parents! The girls could have become whores or heroin addicts, and you’d never have noticed!”
The baby inside me moved, as if protesting the angry tone and the influx of adrenalin that my emotion transferred to him. Even though I stopped lambasting Father aloud, I continued the diatribe in my mind, until I heard the clash of the trashcans announce the coming of the day. I maintained a long litany of his failings that I fingered mentally, as if telling a rosary made of pain.
The third time Father came, four months later, I was awake with indigestion. The clock in the hall had struck 1 a.m. As I sipped my second cup of peppermint tea, I read the galleys of a book I was editing. For several nights I had slept poorly. My pregnant belly made it hard to find a comfortable position. When I smelled the cigar smoke, I slapped the papers down on the quilt.
“Not again!” I growled. “Haven’t you caused enough pain and trouble? What do you want from me?”
Father’s voice seemed to emanate from the walls. “Forgive me,” he said.
“Forgive you? Is this some sort of celestial homework assignment?”
“Forgive me, Teresa. Let me go.”
I was so stunned that I hardly noticed when he faded away. I had never considered that my hurt and rage could be binding Father’s spirit to me. No one else, not Debo, not Dolly, not Angelina, had mentioned a visit from Father’s ghost. He kept coming to me. All my life, the mere mention of him caused me to be swallowed in a wave of rage and hurt. All the memories that I nurtured highlighted Father’s neglect, and his withdrawal of affection, attention, or approval. It took effort to maintain this mountainous grudge I carried against my father. Did I have any positive memories of Father? Any at all? In the lamp light of my bedroom, I made myself reconsider.
In the years before Junior was born, I was wrapped in the warm blanket of Father’s love. It seemed to end with my brother’s birth, but now, in the wee hours, with the scent of cigar smoke still drifting in my bedroom, I could recall other times. Some small, sweet moments came back to me. I remembered practicing a Chopin Etude on the piano while Father sat in his recliner. When the piece came to an end, I glanced at him. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling.
“That was beautiful,” he said. “Play it again, little bird.”
I remembered one evening when I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, he came home with a velvet jewelry box that he put in my hands. I looked at him, surprised, searching in my mind for the occasion that merited a gift, but I could think of none. I was eleven years old, as awkward and funny-looking as I could be, with braces, a bad haircut, and an attitude.
Father smiled at my consternation. “I saw these in the window at Saks. I thought you’d like them.”
In the box was a pair of pearl stud earrings. The pearls were set in gold petals, making a delicate, luminous flower. They were lovely. I wore them for years, and I have them still. Now other events came back to me. There was the time he took me, just me, to the opera. I was fourteen and the performance was La Boheme. Junior sulked for days because he wasn’t invited.
Father said to him, “I’ll take you to the opera when I know you can behave yourself.”
The evening was that much sweeter for me because Junior was excluded. I wore my best navy suit and, of course, my pearl earrings.
When I was working at the publishing company during the summer, Father came by occasionally to take me out to lunch. Mostly we talked about the business and the twins, nothing personal or significant. But it was time that he gave to me alone.
As I sifted through my twenty-three years with my father, I was slowly filled with shame. All along there were expressions of his caring, and I had blocked them out in order to feed my rage. I cried a great deal that night, hot tears of regret. I even called out to his spirit to come back, but he did not reappear.
A week went by during which my heart felt like it was being reshaped. The process involved an ocean of tears and much chest pain, like the organs between my ribs were imploding. When finally Father swirled in on the scent of smoke, I wept as I said, “I’m so ashamed and sorry that I’ve stayed angry at you for so long. I can forgive you, Father. But can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “I did not love you well enough. I will do better the next time, my little bird.”
With that eerie promise, the smoky trail dispersed. To this day, the odor of cigar smoke sends prickles up my spine, but Father’s ghost has never returned.
Angelina gracefully assumed the management of the household. She started in the kitchen. Once we were addicted to her antipasto and lasagna, she began to refit the kitchen with new appliances. She moved on to the living room, tossing out the dark, dreary curtains. She sent the couches out to be recovered. Debo was given carte blanche to redecorate her bedroom. The apartment began to lose its air of stagnation. Nothing Angelina did, however, could rid the rooms of Father’s cigar smoke.
One day she asked me if I would prefer to be living in my own place. I almost wept with relief and gratitude. It was as if the door to a dark jail cell was unlocked, and the light poured in. So began a new phase of my life. Angelina helped me find a small studio in the East Village. I was in my second year of graduate school at Columbia, getting my master’s degree in English. Walking into my little studio was like stepping into Heaven for me. It was not quiet; New York City is never quiet; but it was a peaceful and happy place, and my very own.
Once Angelina had put the household in order, she began accompanying Father to the office. At this time, Cousin Alberto oversaw all the shipping. Though in his mid-thirties, Cousin Alberto was as yet unmarried. He was considered a most eligible bachelor, whose photograph appeared occasionally in New York magazine. Our paths rarely crossed once I’d moved out, but Angelina saw more and more of Cousin Alberto as she began to learn the administration of Salerno Enterprises. In her open friendly way, Angelina asked intelligent questions and came up with thoughtful comments and solutions. Things began to run more smoothly. The office staff adored her.
One day I happened to stop in to say hello. Angelina had her own desk; she was talking on the telephone, but she waved to me and put up a finger to let me know she’d be only a minute. I found Father in his office.
“Father, the whole office seems to be better. Even Mrs. Romano smiled at me, and she’s never done that before. Is this all Angelina’s doing?”
“Sure it is,” he said. “The woman has an MBA.” He tapped his temple and winked. “Your father is not a stupid.”
It was Angelina who first noticed the discrepancies in the accounts. After the whole mess came to light, and Cousin Alberto was in prison, we who were left realized that Angelina had suspected Cousin Alberto all along. When I asked her what tipped her off, she laughed and tapped her temple just like Father.
“Alberto was living far too well, even for the generous salary your father paid him.”
Looking back now, I’d like to say that I sensed something dishonest in Cousin Alberto, revealed in a sly expression, or an edginess of manner, but it would not be true. Cousin Alberto was twenty years old when he came to New York to work with Father. To my seven-year-old eyes, my uncle was a tall man with gold necklaces, a white teeth smile, a big laugh, and lots of dark curly hair, even on his chest. He treated us children as if we were household pets. He greeted us, patted us on the head, and then ignored us. For me, he was only another member of my parents’ social circle, just a more frequent visitor because he was family.
The social sections of the newspapers showed Cousin Alberto in nightclubs with celebrities, or escorting a famous model to the opening of a Broadway show. He always looked the same, smiling his wide, confident smile, waving agreeably to his audience. He truly believed he was untouchable, too smart to get caught. He didn’t reckon with Angelina. She was smarter, and in her way, more devious than Cousin Alberto.
Later, I asked Angelina to tell me about Cousin Alberto’s arrest.
“Two policemen came to the office early one morning. Alberto was lounging at his desk, you know how he does.” She leaned back in her chair, exuding arrogance, just like Alberto. I had to laugh. “He was smoking a cigar and talking on the telephone, loud, in Italian. One of the cops stepped up and said, “Alberto Salerno? I have a warrant for your arrest.” Just like in the movies. You should have seen Alberto’s face. His eyebrows lifted up like this. He was really surprised. He said, “What did I do? This is a mistake.”
“You are Alberto Giovanni Salerno?” the other cop said. Then he read Alberto his Miranda rights. When the first cop pulled out handcuffs, Alberto went a little pale. “Are these necessary?” he said. “Put out your hands,” the cop said. Before he got into the elevator, Alberto yelled at Norma his secretary to call his lawyer. And then he was gone. In jail. And good riddance.” Angelina clapped her hands as if she were brushing away dirt.
All through breakfast, Teresa thinks about the conflicting stories. Was Margaret’s mother Mary or Eliza? If the newborn boy died with Eliza, whose child moved with Margaret and George to Somerset? Teresa finds one of her legal pads in her computer case. She starts making notes. The chronology is getting complicated; she needs to record the information. She writes:
–Margaret’s room discovered in 1865
-Margaret died and room was closed up in 1790
-Margaret died in her early 20s
– born around 1765 (?)
-Mother (Mary? Eliza?) died approx. 1775 (?) Margaret about 10 years old
-family moved to Ireland, Margaret approx. 15 years (?) in 1780
-George returned home to Manor
-shipwreck 1790
Questions:
-name of ship she was on
-names of other wreckers who worked with George? John?
-descendants who would know family history?
-ship’s log?
-birth/death records in church?
Teresa puts down her pen. The pull of this new writing project is like a strong magnet, separating her from her father’s story and its deadline. She realizes she must focus on the autobiography, or it will fizzle away like a match burning out. Already, last night, Teresa emailed her editor, Janine, with the proposal for Margaret’s story. Janine always replies within twenty-four hours. Teresa is sure Janine will be interested, even excited, about such a departure from Teresa’s usual work.
When she walks into the bedroom to begin writing, Teresa sees the open drawer. She is reminded of the spilled tea and peers into the drawer with some apprehension. Sure enough, the damage is bad. The wooden bottom of the drawer has warped and bowed upward. There is a wide crack along the arch of the wood. She pushes down the warped board gingerly, but rather than flattening out as she hopes, it cracks open further. Teresa can now see something dark and shiny showing through the gap.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Teresa murmurs.
She tries sliding her fingers in the slit but she can only touch the object. It feels smooth and slightly slick to her fingertips. Determined now, Teresa hurries down to the kitchen for a knife. The drawer bottom is wedged into a groove at each end. It won’t slide forward or back. If she raises one edge with the knife, she can just manage to pry up the wood high enough to see in. Visible now is a packet of some sort, tied with a cord.
Tossing all caution aside, Teresa uses the knife to break open one side of the false drawer bottom. She lifts out the packet. It is made of oiled cloth, the eighteenth century’s version of a Ziploc plastic bag. Teresa sits down in the chair. Her hands are trembling. The cord crumbles in her fingers. She brushes the pieces aside. She unfolds the flap. Inside is a folded paper, brittle to the touch. When she slips it out and tries to unfold it, the yellowed paper cracks into thirds. Teresa lines up the pieces on the desk. The writing is faint, in a hand that appears labored, with ill-formed letters, as if the writer used the skill infrequently. It is dated: 12th September, 1790. Some parts are washed out and illegible.
Teresa reads:
Herein lies the full and true acc——- the activities of George Lyon Braithewaite —–anor House, Mantecoombe, De——-ire.———— night of September 9th ——-fellow wreckers F———- Thomson and Andrew ——-
—–ster put a false fire ——rrow’s Point. ———– ————- great storm ——— ship the ————–ve came in on the rocks. ——— 11 barrels of brandy and ——–es of tea. Frederick cal—– me ——- body of a young woman, face ba————- swollen. ——–valuables ——-alive —-to the house——–her——- pstairs bedchamber.
——-morning ——constable came with the shipping co——- list——-ssengers. ——-my own de—– daugh—– Margaret ——-instrument of her untimely death—–grandson Lucas, a babe of ———- liv——— M——t —-sealed——-tomb. ——unspeakable loss —- eternal remorse —–life —————living hell.
This ———sworn statement signed this 12th day of Sep———–he year of our Lord, 1790.
Geor——-Ly——–raithewaite.
Teresa lets her breath out in a long exhale.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she says, reverting to the most awe-inspired exclamation from her Catholic upbringing.
With her mind racing, Teresa lifts the packet and shakes it out over the desk. Two rings, a pair of earrings, and a bracelet fall out in a thin stream of sand. They land on the desk surface with a gentle chink. One ring is a plain gold band; the other has a small garnet in a beveled setting. The earrings are garnets as well, and match the style of the ring. The bracelet is made of three bands of thin gold woven into the claddagh symbol of Ireland, with the crown for loyalty, the clasped hands for friendship, and the heart for love.
The air in the bedroom is cold and damp. Teresa shivers, whether from cold or emotion, she couldn’t say. Margaret’s jewelry catches the morning sunlight. Teresa’s first urge is to go to Miss MIcklewhite or Mr. Braithewaite with her discovery. She has the oilcloth bag repacked and is ready to run downstairs when she pauses. Once the treasures are in other hands, she’ll never have them to herself again. Teresa retraces her steps. Getting her digital camera, she takes careful, clear photographs of the jewelry and each section of George’s confession.
Almost four hours and much excitement later, Teresa returns to her bedroom. The antique desk, site of the discovery, is gone, replaced by a newer, less elegant one. Mr. Braithewaite, who, it turns out, is really Lord Braithewaite, has taken the packet to the Victoria and Albert Museum, where a curator friend of his waits to examine the find. Trish text-messaged her sister in town with the news, and it was all that was needed to spread the word. The local press has come and gone. Teresa told her part of the story so many times that her throat feels scratchy. It is two in the afternoon. and she feels worn out.
Teresa makes herself a strong cup of tea before sitting down in front of her laptop. With all the brouhaha, Teresa feels distanced from her own tale, yet she must finish it, and soon. She boots up the story, rereads the last chapter, and begins.
The dream begins the same way as the first in which Teresa is the little girl with the butterscotch pony, only the scene has expanded like a panoramic shot in a movie. Now, in the curious way of dreams, Teresa is both the little girl in the dream and the observer. The father is the same lean, blue-eyed man with the loving smile. He presents her with the pony, only this time he says, “Here you are my darling little bird, my Maggie-pie. A pony of your very own.”
“Oh, Da, she’s lovely,” the girl says, patting the horse’s nose.
He lifts her up onto the pony’s back and leads her around the grassy yard. She feels a surge of pure joy from her toes in the stirrups to the dark curls on her head. Beyond the pasture, Teresa the observer can see a low farmhouse. Out of the door comes an older man with a shock of gray hair. He runs toward them across the grass. As he gets closer, Teresa, who is also Maggie on the pony, can see the man’s face is anguished. He runs toward them, waving his arms and shouting, “George! George!”
When he is close enough to be heard, the older man calls, “Eliza’s in a bad way! Her time’s come and she’s bleeding something fierce! I sent Harry for the doctor! You’d better hurry!”
For the girl on the pony, the day’s happiness drains away as if a plug were pulled from the sunlit sky and dark clouds rushed in. There is a surge of shadows and the scene folds and then reopens at a graveside under a rainy sky. Three mourners in dark, worn clothing cluster in the mud around the grave where two simple coffins, large and small, become shiny and slick in the rain. Teresa, as the little Maggie, holds the older man’s hand. She feels him trembling with sobs. Her chest is so heavy with loss that she can barely breathe.
Teresa awakens with tears on her face. She feels sadder than she has in years, not since the death of her little boy, so many years ago. The digital clock by the bedside glows 2:48 in red numbers. Teresa turns on the light. She wipes her eyes with a tissue and blows her nose.
“Whew, this is some painful way to get information, Margaret.”
She lies in the bed with moonlight striping the covers, and lets herself remember Marco, her baby boy. She rarely opens that box of memory, but here in the predawn in a house not her own, she spends time with him, his tiny, perfect fingers, his twisted little legs and feet.
“Oh, Marco,” Teresa sighs. There is something so terrible about tiny white coffins covered in flowers.
Morning finally comes in shafts of bright sunlight and ecstatic birdsong. Teresa lies in bed, letting the light glow through her eyelids. She wishes she were like those birds, able to greet each new day with such a fury of joy. She fingers the necklace she has worn for almost forty years. It is a flat, cream-colored spiral, set in beveled gold. Angelina gave it to Teresa when Marco was born, explaining that the spiral was actually the door of a sea snail. One could find these delicate spirals in the beach sand of the Costa del Sol, but it took a sharp eye and much searching. In her travels, Teresa has found a few of these herself, but none as lovely as the one she wears.
In less than a quarter of an hour, Teresa is dressed and stepping through the wrought-iron garden gate. Mr. Braithewaite is there as she’d hoped. Today he is deadheading a patch of primroses. The battered brown felt hat is crushed down on his head. He has his pipe clamped between his teeth; it seems to have gone out.
“Good morning,” Teresa calls out. “Do you have a moment to chat?”
He waves her over without turning around. “Can’t get up until these are done or I’ll never get down again. The damp weather aggravates my joints.”
“Yes, it can do that. I can help, if you like.” Teresa squats down beside him, mentally congratulating herself on the decades of yoga that allow her to be limber still. She begins to nip off the brown, spent flowers, tossing them into the frayed basket.
“What can you tell me about the Braithewaites who lived here in 1790?” she asks.
“Let’s see,” Mr. Braithewaite pauses and squints up at the sky as if the answer might be scrolled in the passing clouds. “John Braithewaite worked the farm with his father, who tried raising dairy cows. But the land couldn’t support a large dairy operation, so, after John’s father died, he supplemented the farm with wrecking. They smuggled out the brandy, you know, and tea, keeping whatever else they could use, and selling the rest.” There is a long pause while Mr. Braithewaite relights his pipe. “At some point, John joined up with the wreckers who put out false lights.” Another pause while he puffs and shifts to the left. Teresa feels disappointed. This is the same story she heard from Miss Micklewhite. She was hoping for more details from a member of the family.
Mr. Braithewaite continues, “His son, George, was Margaret’s father. I suppose you’ve heard about Margaret from Miss Micklewhite. George had been a partner in the farming and the wrecking, but he balked at joining the false lighters. Said it was one thing to pick up cargo from foundered ships, another to be the cause of the wreck. He packed up his family: his wife Mary, Margaret, and their infant son, and moved to Somerset.”
“But I heard that Margaret’s mother died in childbirth,” Teresa says, surprised. “And I thought her mother’s name was Eliza.”
Mr. Braithewaite turns abruptly to squint at Teresa, almost scowling. “Who told you that?”
“Uh, I–I don’t remember,” Teresa stammers. “Someone who was a guest here, perhaps.” Why would two such conflicting versions exist? she wonders.
Mr. Braithewaite says, “I don’t know anything about that. The family moved away, that’s the story handed down to my forebears. And now, Ms. Salerno, you’ll excuse me. I’m due to meet with my solicitor at ten.” He creaks slowly to standing.
Teresa stands up as well, brushing soil from her jeans. “About how old would Margaret have been when her family left Devonshire?”
“Hmmm…around ten years old, I should think. Ta.” He moves off down the path, leaving Teresa with more questions than before the conversation began.
Teresa pushes back from the desk and peers out the window. It is still raining; drops trickle down the panes in silver streaks. Running her fingers through her salt and pepper bob, Teresa remembers that day, the day Angelina came into their lives. Of course, Teresa was furious at first. Mother was dead less than a year. It soon became obvious that Angelina was no new acquaintance of Father’s. The newlyweds were far too comfortable with each other, and their conversation overflowed with references to mutual friends and experiences that seemed to span years in Italy. Teresa wanted to hate Angelina, wanted to pounce on innumerable faults and reprehensible qualities, but she could find none. Angelina was just like her name, a little angel. What she saw in Father was a mystery.
Angelina enchanted the twins within a week of her arrival. Both Debo and Dolly were at home until school started. Angelina asked them to show her New York. Each evening the trio came bursting into the apartment in high spirits, shouting phrases in Italian.
A rueful smile is on Teresa’s lips as she recalls her own hostile behavior. She maintained loyalty to Mother for a month or two, but Angelina won her over in the end. She was, Teresa thinks, the most patient, generous, and loving person any of us children had ever known. She was lighthearted, funny, and fun. Angelina even smoothed out some of Father’s hard edges.
Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, Teresa realizes that she’s been at the computer for hours. The battery needs charging. She opens the desk drawer to get out the charger. It isn’t there, so Teresa goes downstairs to see if she left it in her carrying case. While she is in the living room, she opens the front door. Clouds are high, backlit by the full moon. There are puddles on the paths, but the rain has almost stopped. Everything smells fresh and earthy and fragrant. She breathes in deeply several times, decides to leave the door open for some clean air.
Upstairs again, Teresa sees that the mug that held her tea is lying on its side. The cold tea has trickled into the open desk drawer soaking some of her tourist pamphlets. She picks up the dripping papers and drops them into the trashcan. Underneath the papers, the thin wood of the bottom of the drawer is wet and beginning to warp. Teresa gets a bunch of paper towels from the kitchen. She blots up as much of the wetness as she can and leaves the drawer open to dry.
“If you knocked over the tea, Margaret, I can tell you I don’t appreciate it. You could have damaged my computer, not to mention this antique desk,” Teresa says into the room’s shadows. “I told you I’d do the writing, but you have to do your part and get me some information, too.” She goes back to the kitchen with the mug and a handful of wet paper towels. “I’m glad there’s no one here to witness me talking to a dead woman,” Teresa mutters.
She tosses out the towels and rinses the mug in the sink. “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve conversed with a ghost,” Teresa says.
She remembers when Father’s spirit appeared to her after he died. It was always preceded by the scent of cigar smoke. To this day, cigar smoke makes Teresa snap into a state of alertness and anxiety, even though Father’s ghost hasn’t been around for decades.
Teresa stands for a few minutes in the open doorway, taking in the moonlit path and the scents of the wet earth and foliage. She thinks she can hear the sea. She closes the door and then checks the electric meter and appliances. It has become her habit since the first night’s misadventures. In the bedroom, Teresa opens the window halfway before sliding into bed. In the early morning, she has another dream.
Tangled Magic 