The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,72

as if I’d touched her after walking across a thick carpet in my socks, then flash a smile and say, “Well, you, sugar! Who else could I be thinking about?”

At the time, this made perfect sense. I was a child and, as far as I knew, the center of Calpurnia’s universe. Who else could she be thinking about?

“What about this one?” I asked. “Do you know where it was taken?”

Felicia shook her head. “No. But not around here. Nobody in Charleston would wear a coat that heavy, not even in January. I’m sorry not to be more help. I guess the only one who could tell you for sure is Calpurnia.”

Felicia handed the photographs back to me. “I sure miss her.”

“So do I.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

There were no more Beard-Baby-Calpurnia dreams that night, or ever again. I slept soundly that night and the next and ever after. Monday was going to be even busier than usual, but I woke with the sun, got my usual latte from Bitty and Beau’s, and then walked to St. Philip’s to do what I couldn’t before.

The grass covering Calpurnia’s grave was tufted and uneven, still trying to take hold. Her marker was simple, a plain white cross with nothing more than her name, birth date, and death date. The sight of it made me sad in a way that was hard to pin down. It seemed disproportionate in relation to the impact she’d had on my life. How could someone who had meant so much to me come to so little?

In the end, it comes to that for everyone, I suppose. Still.

The sun beamed leaf-shaped shadows onto the earth. Across the street, in the sanctuary of St. Philip’s, people had gathered for Morning Prayer. The murmur of their voices seeped through the open windows and permeated the air like a fine mist. I slipped the pictures from the pocket before taking off my jacket, then spread it out next to Calpurnia’s grave and sat down, taking care not to crush the newly sprung tufts of grass, and sat staring at Calpurnia’s name, engraved in white marble, waiting. I wasn’t sure exactly what for. Some kind of sign? Another dream?

Instead, I felt a flutter of wind brush my face and ruffle my hair. It rustled the leaves and blew a murmur of voices in toward me, swirling fragments of prayers into the air and my ears.

We have erred, and strayed . . .

followed too much the devices and desires . . . .

left undone those things which we ought to have done . . .

have mercy upon us . . .

Spare them . . .

Restore thou them . . .

according to thy promises . . .

The wind calmed, and the leaves stilled, and the voices muffled into a murmur once again. There was no answer, only stillness. Yet I felt heard. And strangely at peace.

“I’m sorry, Auntie Cal. For both of us.”

I fanned the photos out in my hand, wondering about the story behind them and what, if anything, I was supposed to do with them now that I’d found them. If I’d had more time, I might have lingered longer, but there was so much to do. I needed to go to the market but hadn’t even decided on a menu. Maybe Calvin would have some ideas.

I got to my feet, slipped the pictures back into my pocket, and told Calpurnia good-bye. As I turned to go, the doors of the church opened and a small stream of worshippers trickled out. I spotted a lanky man in a rusty-black suit and lifted my arm to wave a greeting, but Trey didn’t see me. He was hunched over to support the slow, shuffling, and painfully laborious progress of the wizened old man who clung to his arm. Maybe a relative? But Trey practiced a lot of elder law, so the old man could have been a client too. Whoever it was, the time didn’t seem right for greetings.

I lowered my arm and left the churchyard from a different entrance. When I turned the corner, somebody coming from the other side ran right into me, hitting me so forcefully that I stumbled and was knocked to my knees.

“Uh-oh! I’m sorry!” A beefy arm reached down, grabbed my elbow, pulled me to my feet. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, Miss Celia. I didn’t see you coming.”

I brushed dirt from my hands and looked up at the big man who towered over me. Teddy, my favorite barista from Bitty and