Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Virginia Powell's home on Madison Square wasn't nearly as big as Bell House but it was still impressive and fancy enough to stun me into silence. A housekeeper answered when we rang the bell, ushering us inside right away. She directed Catherine straight upstairs and sent me to the parlour where I perched on the edge of a hard, high-backed loveseat, keeping my hands to myself. Whoever had designed this room was not concerned with making people feel at home. The walls were painted a stark white, ready to show up any and all fingerprints, and every carefully displayed object in the room just about screamed ‘do not touch'. It was all so breakable. The stray dog feeling wandered back into my head and I half wished Catherine had left me tied to the railings outside.

‘And what do we have here?'

Standing in the doorway was a girl. She looked like she was about my age with a puff of corkscrew curls that surrounded her like a halo and wide laughing eyes that filled her heart-shaped face. The neon pink of her outfit set off her clear brown skin and I couldn't tell if I was more intimidated or obsessed. Without knowing a single thing about this girl, I was one hundred per cent certain she was one hundred per cent cooler than me.

‘As I live and breathe,' she declared, crossing the room with an easy grace I couldn't even dream of. She definitely lived here. ‘If it ain't the legendary missing Bell baby.'

‘Also known as Emily,' I said, jumping up to my feet. I stuck out my hand, feeling more awkward than ever. ‘Most people call me Em. Nice to meet you.'

‘Lydia Powell.' She took my hand and shook it firmly, dipping into a low curtsey. Was I supposed to reciprocate? I had no idea. ‘Pleased to finally meet you too, it's only taken sixteen years. You know you're the talk of the town, right? How does it feel to be a local celebrity?'

When she let go of my hand, I wrapped my arms around myself to make myself as small as possible.

‘Not great?'

Lydia hacked out a laugh and grinned.

‘I'm sorry, it must be strange for you,' she said, fluffing out her curls. ‘I can't remember a time when I didn't know all about Miss Catherine's long-lost son and his little baby girl. Weird to think of you all grown up, you're always a baby in the stories.'

‘It's weird to think anyone would be telling stories about me at all,' I told her, looking away out the window as my face flamed.

Over the top of her neon-pink bike shorts and matching crop top, she wore an oversized white men's shirt that had been embroidered with delicate flowers in blue, silver and gold. Her chunky white sneakers gleamed, box fresh, and both her wrists jangled with stacks of bracelets and bangles. Everything about her looked intentional. Her clothes were put together, her hair had been styled. My clothes were just clothes and my hair was just there, no thought had gone into any of it. It was all I could do not to fall on the floor and beg her to teach me her ways.

‘You sure do look like your grandmother,' she said with a low, appraising whistle. ‘All except for the hair anyways. Looks like a Bell, talks like a Brit, what a killer combo. You're going to slay out here, Em.'

‘Slaying is not on the agenda,' I assured her, sneaking a sideways glance in the mirror mounted on the wall beside the door and silently squirrelling away the comparison with Catherine. Did she really see the resemblance? ‘To be honest, I'll be happy if I can get through the next few weeks without melting. Is it always this hot here?'

Flopping on the couch, Lydia patted the seat cushion, inviting me to do the same. ‘It will get hotter,' she said as I took the other end of the couch, all tight and tense compared to her loose limbs. ‘But don't worry too much about the heat, it's the pop-up thunderstorms you have to watch out for.'

‘Summer in Savannah is not the same as summer in Wales.' My face was grim as I pulled the already damp fabric of my black T-shirt away from my skin. ‘I'm going to need some new clothes. Almost everything I own was designed to keep me warm.'

‘I'll take you shopping,' she offered before I'd even had a chance to ask. ‘I just know your grandmother will take you to Neiman's and dress you up like a little debutante doll. In fact, if you even hear her think the word debutante, I want you to run. Call me and I will hide you. I've been dodging the conversation for a year and a half now, I'm an expert.'

I found a smile as she kicked her legs up over the back of the couch, waving her arms around in the air as she talked. Lydia was impossible not to like.

‘They still do that kind of thing here?' I asked. ‘Debutantes?'

‘Oh yeah. And it's every bit as ridiculous as you're imagining.'

I tried to picture it, the two of us in fancy white gowns and matching gloves, waltzing around some ballroom with faceless dates in black tuxedos, but just the thought of it made my skin prickle and I looked down to see a red rash flushing on my forearms. Could be hives, could be heatstroke, who could say for sure? All I knew was, I wasn't the debutante ball kind.

‘You are joking, right?' I swallowed hard as imaginary me tripped over her own feet at the imaginary ball much to imaginary Catherine's disappointment. ‘There's no way I could be a debutante. I haven't done any of the training and I can't dance. I can barely walk in a straight line without falling over.'

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but it's tradition, honey, and this town is all about tradition. Especially your family,' Lydia replied ominously. ‘Do you really think the missing Bell baby is going to sail back into town and not be presented to society? It's the only coming out party our grandmothers are interested in. Trust me .'

‘If we could stop calling me the missing Bell baby, that would be amazing,' I said, all the blood draining out of my face.

‘Lyds, why does our guest look like she's about to bolt out the door and never come back? She's been here less than five minutes and you've scared her already?'

I looked up to see we were no longer alone. A tall, gorgeous boy in a basketball jersey and baggy shorts leaned against the doorframe, grinning, and all the blood that had drained away from my face raced back up at once. His curls were cut close on the sides and looser on top, and the broader planes of his face made more room for his wide eyes and full lips, but there was no way to miss the fact he and Lydia were siblings. Aside from being absurdly good-looking, they both had the same irresistible glint in their eye that promised all kinds of good trouble.

‘Em, this is my twin brother, Jackson.' Lydia waved a hand between the two of us and Jackson flashed a grin that made my stomach flutter. ‘Don't look directly at him. He's like the sun, one glance and he'll blind you, you'll be ruined forever.'

‘Lydia, that's a terrible thing to say about your own brother. Even if it is true,' Jackson said, full of mock outrage before he turned the full force of his charm on me. ‘Miss Emily, please forgive my sister, she's the most dreadful host. What can I get y'all to drink?'

‘That's me, the worst host in the whole of Georgia,' Lydia declared before hopping up to her feet, hands on her hips. ‘You sit, I'll get the drinks. What'll it be? Tea? Lemonade? Arnold Palmer?'

Jackson took his sister's place on the sofa and I felt a warm flush all over that had nothing to do with the weather. I was as bad at dealing with hot guys as I was hot temperatures, maybe even worse.

‘That's tea and lemonade together,' he murmured in my ear. ‘It's delicious.'

‘I know that,' I replied quickly, inching away as he moved closer. ‘I've had an Arnold Palmer before, my dad used to make them all the time.'

Definitely worse with hot guys.

‘Arnold Palmers it is.' Lydia pointed at her brother with narrowed eyes. ‘Jackson, if you could not hit on her for the three minutes I'm gone, that would be amazing.'

He gave her a sharp salute then stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, lowering the force of his flirtation by a few degrees as he turned towards me.

‘So, you're the long-lost granddaughter?'

‘Apparently,' I confirmed, fussing with the dry ends of my ponytail. A few degrees were not enough. ‘Although I only found out myself a couple of days ago.'

His forehead creased with sympathy. ‘I heard about what happened to your dad. I'm sorry.'

I silently nodded my thanks.

‘He really didn't tell you anything about your family?' Jackson asked. ‘Nothing at all?'

‘Nope.' I shook my head, my mouth a tight unhappy line. ‘Not a thing.'

‘And you have no idea why?'

‘I wish I did,' I replied, the backs of my eyes prickling with tears as my nose started to burn.

‘It must be a lot to take in,' he said, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. ‘You know, if you ever need someone to talk to—'

Lydia came crashing back through the door, three very full glasses in her hands, each of them spilling as she cantered across the parlour.

‘Arnold Palmer, Arnold Palmer.' She held them out for us to take, one for me, one for Jackson, the last one for her. ‘I put some rosemary in there to gussy it up a little. Let me know if you need it sweeter, I can add a little more sugar.'

‘I'm sure it's perfect,' I said, squinting at the woody branch sticking out the glass as I took my first sip. It was the sweetest thing a human being had ever consumed. I could feel my teeth rotting in my head as my blood sugar levels sky-rocketed. Could a human develop diabetes in one day? We were about to find out.

‘So great,' I said, struggling to swallow it down. ‘Thank you.'

Lydia settled on the floor in front of the couch, stirring her drink with the sprig of rosemary and clashing brilliantly with the antique wool rug. ‘What'd I miss?'

‘Nothing,' I answered with a quick glance at Jackson. ‘I was just asking if the two of you have lived in Savannah your whole lives.'

‘Certainly have,' he said with a kind smile and I relaxed a little, knowing he wasn't going to press the subject of my oblivious upbringing. ‘Savannahians born and raised but our mom got remarried last year and our stepdad—'

‘ Jeremy ,' Lydia interrupted, drawing out every syllable of the name and heaping on disapproval.

‘ Jeremy ,' Jackson repeated with the same obvious disdain, ‘got a job in Charleston. We stayed back to finish the school year and I guess now we're staying on for the summer while Mom and—'

‘ Jeremy .'

Another gag from Lydia.

‘While Mom and Jeremy look for a house.'

‘They're living in an apartment right now,' Lydia explained. ‘No room for us. I kinda think Jeremy likes it better that way.'

‘I'd rather stay here anyway,' her brother added. ‘Who wants to live in Charleston ?'

They shared a look that suggested that living in Charleston was almost as terrible a concept as Jeremy himself, and moving there would be second only to relocating to the seventh circle of hell.

‘Your parents are divorced?' I guessed, rattling my ice cubes against the glass to help dilute the world's sweetest drink.

‘Not quite. Our bio-dad took off before we were born, we never knew him,' Lydia replied with an ease I did not see reflected in her brother's face. ‘No one cares now but it was a big disgrace to our grandmother. A Powell daughter hooking up with some travelling artist who disappeared in the night, never to be seen again? Ol' Virginia took to her bed for weeks.' She scowled at her brother when he flashed her a warning look. ‘What? Don't look at me like that.'

‘TMI?' he replied. ‘Emily didn't ask for our entire family history.'

‘Whatever, Jackson,' she dismissed before chugging her drink. ‘She would've found out eventually.'

‘Our grandmother says we're the same age,' he said, turning back to me and ignoring his sister so easily I had to assume he'd had a lot of practice. ‘You're sixteen too?'

‘Yep,' I confirmed, beyond relieved that he'd asked a question before I had to come up with a response to all of that. I got the feeling Lydia didn't believe in leaving out any details, ever. ‘I'll be seventeen in June.'

‘We turn seventeen in August,' she said happily. ‘Going into junior year in the fall and it better be here. I can't stand the thought of having to start over in—' She paused to shudder. ‘ Charleston .'

‘With Jeremy ,' I added.

Lydia rolled onto her back and pointed at me while glaring meaningfully at her brother.

‘She gets it. She. Gets. It.'

‘What about you?' Jackson asked.

‘No idea,' I replied with uncertainty. ‘I already took my exams but I honestly don't know what I'll do now. College next year, I guess.'

‘And she's a genius,' Lydia declared as I took a deep drink from my glass, trying to knock back as much as possible at once. I felt the granulated sugar grinding against my teeth then something else, something more solid, catching in the back of my throat.

‘I've never been more jealous of a living soul,' she added with a dramatic sigh. ‘Hey, are you OK?'

I coughed, one hand still holding the glass, the other flat against my chest.

‘Something's stuck in my throat,' I choked out as it became harder to breathe.

‘Em?' Lydia sounded panicked as I dropped my glass, a woody stick rolling back and forth inside as the liquid seeped into the rug. I dropped to my knees, spluttering for air. It was the rosemary. I was choking on a sprig of rosemary.

My eyes watered then closed as the room went black and again I felt that sudden feeling of being pulled backwards. The next thing I knew everything was quiet. I blinked to find I was still in Virginia Powell's parlour but Lydia and Jackson were gone. In their place I saw my dad, a much, much younger version of him, sitting beside a much, much younger version of Catherine. And right in front of me, just a few inches from my face, was my mother. Blonde, blue-eyed and smiling, just like in the photograph. Except she was really here, breathing, moving, alive. I reached out to touch her but my hand was tiny – small, pudgy fingers that couldn't quite close the short distance.

‘She's always trying to grab my locket.' I heard my mother laugh. ‘My little magpie.'

‘Emily!'

The scene disappeared. I was back in the present, a small sprig of rosemary in front of me on the floor, Jackson kneeling beside me and thumping my back between my shoulder blades. My throat and eyes burned as I sat back on my heels, staring around the room, completely disorientated.

‘You're OK,' Lydia exclaimed, slumping down to the floor and crossing herself. ‘Thank the Lord. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to almost unalive you.'

‘Do you need some water?' Jackson asked, all his attention on me, his arms around my shoulders, holding me steady. ‘Or another Arnold Palmer? Without rosemary?'

Whatever I'd seen still hovered at the edge of my vision but when I tried to look directly at it, the whole thing disappeared. This was the same room. The same furniture, the same art on the walls, the same antique rug. It was decorated differently, white now instead of blue, but it was one hundred per cent the same room.

‘This isn't the first time I've been in this house,' I said in a scratchy, hoarse voice. ‘I've been here before.'

‘Probably. When you were a baby.' Jackson put his hand on my back, the spot between my shoulders throbbing from his life-saving strikes. ‘You don't look well, Emily, I'm going to get Miss Catherine.'

‘No, don't,' I said as fast as I could. I wiped smeared mascara off my cheeks and reached for my locket. Still there. The cool metal soothed my burning hand. My whole body was red hot. ‘I'm fine. I'm great. I just need some fresh air.' I rose to my feet and floated out the parlour towards the front door, barely able to feel the floor beneath me. ‘I need to be outside.'

‘We'll go with you,' Lydia offered, but my hand was already on the doorknob.

‘I'm OK,' I insisted, already half out the door. ‘Please tell Catherine I'll find my own way home.'

I stumbled down the front steps and out onto Madison Square, leaving the Powell house and my strange vision behind.