Dark Corner

Chapter 4

A Grand Reopening

Biltmore Village

Nestled in the mountains where the Swannanoa River flows into the French Broad was Biltmore Village, formerly known as the town of Best and before that it was home to the Cherokee. That all changed when George Vanderbilt began construction on his great estate and needed homes for the craftsmen required to build it. Biltmore Village was modeled after a small English village, providing a fitting and quaint entrance to the Biltmore Estate.

In the middle of the village, the green was being mowed for the upcoming May Day celebration. In the early 1900s, the parish school erected a maypole and a flower-adorned throne for the May queen, a celebration the ladies were bringing back this spring.

Stepping along the uneven cobblestone sidewalk, we reached the Leaf & Page, standing as it had for over a century. It was hard to distinguish from the others as all the homes, now storefronts, were built from brick, stucco, pebbledash, and wood timber, giving the building an old-world charm in this new-world town. In the etched glass of the picture window, Mrs. Twiggs displayed first editions related to the Vanderbilt family, the Biltmore Estate and Asheville along with her jars of exotic teas. Mrs. Twiggs unlocked the door of the Leaf & Page. I hurried in behind her, Pixel behind me. Abigail pulled a cigarette out of her leather coat. As she raised it to her lips, I gave her a quick tap with my claw on her leg. She glared at me, harrumphing, and shoved the cigarette back in her pocket.

Mrs. Twiggs opened the door, flipping on the lights. We followed her inside. She strolled about the front room, opening the shutters, letting in the early morning sunlight. She walked behind the cash register counter and stared at the portrait of her late husband Albert. The picture blurred and swirled into a mist as Albert appeared in front of us. “My darling, you seem troubled,” Albert said, levitating inches off the floor.

Mrs. Twiggs reached to embrace him. “Shadows and mist,” I whispered.

Albert’s memory was etched into the walls of the Leaf & Page. Mrs. Twiggs had always felt his presence, but since her turning, she could now see and communicate with him. She pulled back not able to touch him. “Albert, I miss you so.”

“Beatrice, my love, we have many lives together before and after this world.”

Mrs. Twiggs smiled. In his previous life, Albert had been a cynic, a lover of science, a pragmatist, but since his death he had become a believer.

A torn and tattered book floated off the shelf, landing on the counter, its pages flipped open. Mrs. Twiggs smiled and read the passage from The Journal of Elizabeth Lightfoot Roadman Rankin. “My beloved William struggles with the conflict. His friends and peers sympathize with the secession of the South, but he feels it will tear our beloved Asheville apart as others fight to keep the Union together. In hopes to quiet the hearts of our community, I am hosting a dinner to bring both sides together. Maybe they can come to peace.”

Mrs. Twiggs closed the journal. “Terra, I’ve been asked by the curator at the Biltmore to help with their upcoming Civil War exhibit.” Encompassing eight thousand acres, the Biltmore Estate was a grand mansion. Its two hundred fifty rooms made it the largest mansion in the United States, and it brought droves of tourists to Asheville. Their exhibits changed seasonally.

“Are you sure you’re up to all this? Opening the store? Helping at the Biltmore?” I asked her.

Mrs. Twiggs fell onto a chair with a heavy thud. “It’s not the same without Emma. She was the Biltmore Society. I feel I owe it to her to continue on.” She patted the book in her lap. “This journal was written by the wife of a predominant Asheville businessman. She chronicled the events of Asheville before and during the Civil War. I hope it will help with the exhibit. They’re bringing in an expert, a scholar from the University of Richmond, to curate.”

Albert glided across the floor and sat down next to Mrs. Twiggs. He reached for the book but was unable to turn the pages. She held it out to him, hovering it above his lap. He skimmed the pages, his head nestled alongside hers.

I strolled across the top of the couch, listening as they read from the memoirs. They read late into the night, Mrs. Twiggs’s head bouncing up and down, struggling to stay awake. Until finally sleep took her. I said good night to Albert as he vanished back into his portrait.

I heard moaning from the back room. I ran to find Pixel hunched up in a corner under a table. “Pixel, what’s wrong?”

“Terra, Pixel scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“That man. He not real.”

“You can see Albert, Pixel?”

Pixel nodded his head.

“It’s okay, Pixel, he’s a friend.”

“He not real, Terra.”

“He’s a ghost, Pixel, a good ghost. That’s Mrs. Twiggs’s husband.”

“He dead?”

“He left this life, and he is living another, Pixel. He lived many lives.”

“Pixel no understand.”

I could hear his stomach growling. “How about we have a snack and I’ll explain.”

Pixel thought for a moment, scratched his chin, and said, “Pixel eat.” He came out from under the table and circled around me. He made fast work of the butter cookies that Mrs. Twiggs had next to her tea. I watched him carefully. Something was not right. First the premonition, now he was able to see ghosts. These were abilities of the fairy world. Not seen nor understood by the humans who shared the earth. Animals especially cats can sense the spirit world; upon occasion they will sit perfectly still, staring at a wall. Cats’ whiskers are like a tuning fork. They send out vibrations that attract spirits; in turn, the whiskers can sense the vibrations that spirits create as they part the molecules that comprise the waking world. Spirits, more so ghosts, as the humans call them, are memories and energy with no form in the physical realm. They appear as we expect them, as Mr. Twiggs, for example. He appears to his wife as he did in life, and I see him through his image from his portrait above the register. Pixel knew him not by either, yet he saw him in the form of a man as fairy folk would. That gave me great concern.

“What fairies, Terra?” he said, looking up with crumbs on his whiskers.

“I didn’t think I thought that out loud.” Curious and curiouser, I thought, stealing a line from Lewis Carroll.

Pixel finished his cookie. It was nearly midnight. Mrs. Twiggs would be up at five, preparing the store, making blueberry muffins. I could tell that the events of Halloween were a strain on her. She needed to return to normalcy, get back to her human routine. I curled up next to Pixel by the fire, its heat warming us, and drifted off.

When I woke, I heard Mrs. Twiggs bustling around the kitchen, Pixel underfoot.

“Me hungry. Me hungry,” Pixel chanted repeatedly.

“It’s coming, Pixel,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

I sauntered into the kitchen, my tail swiping the wall as I entered. Pixel scurried in between Mrs. Twiggs’s legs, his tail pointed upright, shaking ferociously. It was early, not quite dawn. But the announcement of the reopening of the Leaf & Page would bring all the regulars out hungry for Mrs. Twiggs’s tea, scones, and muffins.

We followed Mrs. Twiggs out to her small garden behind the store. She opened the henhouse door. “Good morning, ladies,” she said. I heard Pixel’s stomach growl. I gave him a look. He smiled and lay down in the dewy grass. Mrs. Twiggs filled a basket with eggs and then stopped to check her herb garden. Fairy lights lit our way along the stepping-stone path. She stopped at a tiny fairy cottage and opened the door. She was not surprised to find no one at home. Mrs. Twiggs was a believer even before her magic was awakened. She knew that fairy tales were just that, a tale for children. Mrs. Twiggs, she was a child at heart.

Abigail was waiting for us in the kitchen. Mrs. Twiggs tied a white apron around Abigail’s waist. “Let’s give this a try, shall we?” They stood at the large butcher-block island where Mrs. Twiggs had measured out all the ingredients.

“Abigail, it’s no different than mixing a potion,” Mrs. Twiggs said, watching over Abigail’s shoulder. “Baking is chemistry and following directions. First you mix the dry ingredients together, and then you combine the eggs, sugar, and butter.”

Abigail carefully scooped flour into a measuring cup, half of it landing on the counter.

“That’s a good start, dear. You’ll get it.”

Pixel watched intensely from the small kitchen table.

Abigail wiped her brow, leaving a white tread mark across her forehead.

“Seriously, you’ve never baked before,” I asked, leaving white paw prints on the counter.

“Yes, Terra, I’m sure back in your day everything was real farm to table. What’s the point when I can stop at a bakery?” Abigail said.

“You know, Abigail, the way to a man’s heart…”

Abigail interrupted me and said, “Terra, when was the last time you baked for a man?” She then paused and said, “Oh geez, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’m frustrated. It’s getting late and I’m way behind. Honestly I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I took a deep breath. I never had the chance to bake for a man or dance or get married. I never felt a kiss upon my lips, and I didn’t know if I ever would. I felt the need to be alone. I hopped off the counter and ran into the alley. I ran past the dumpster and then stopped, going back to gaze into the broken mirror someone had discarded. No matter how many times I saw my image I was always surprised. In my mind I was still a seventeen-year-old girl, not this ordinary gray alley cat. I had been taking out my frustrations on Abigail, pushing her to succeed where I couldn’t, pushing her to live the life I couldn’t. I was afraid to admit it, but somewhere deep inside I hoped that if I could help Abigail become the witch her great-grandmother was, she could find a way to turn me back. I was so deep in thought I didn’t realize Pixel sat next to me, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He put his paw around me. “Terra, you pretty.”

I let out a low growl and then realized he was trying to cheer me up. “Thank you, Pixel,” I said.

We hurried back to the Leaf & Page. The sun would be rising shortly, and I’m sure there would be a crowd of hungry customers. We slipped in through the cat door. Abigail was taking the muffins out of the oven. She knelt down and picked me up. “I’m so sorry, Terra. It must be so frustrating for you. To be around me. I promise I’ll try harder.”

I wiped the flour off her nose with my paw and nuzzled my head against her shoulder. Mrs. Twiggs came over and hugged us both.

She then opened the front door to let the stream of customers in. Mrs. Twiggs greeted each one as though they were old friends; some were while others were new. They all remarked how wonderful she looked. The enchantment of their turning gave the ladies a youthful glow. Mrs. Twiggs couldn’t disguise the spring in her step. To them she looked eighty years old, but she moved like a prima ballerina. Pixel sat on the edge of the counter, a furry gargoyle watching the commotion. Now and then an elderly woman would walk up and rub his belly. At first he was offended, but then he would roll onto his back and purr.

When everyone had been fed, Mrs. Twiggs tapped her teacup with her spoon. “May I please have your attention?”

The crowded room fell silent, and all eyes turned to her.

“I wanted to thank you all for joining me for the reopening of the Leaf & Page. Please help yourself to muffins and tea on me today.” She winked at Albert.

As the cuckoo struck five, Mrs. Twiggs escorted the last patron out and flipped the sign to Closed. She bustled into the kitchen and filled the three-tier cookie tray with an assortment of fresh-baked cookies, bringing them to the large sideboard in the dining room. She placed chairs around the table, stopping to gaze at the room. It had a festive air. Abigail had hung streamers from the crystal chandelier and placed balloons on the table. Mrs. Twiggs next brought out a crystal punch bowl filled with sparkling champagne punch. Curled up on the table, Pixel reached out his paw nonchalantly, inching his way to the punch bowl.

“Pixel,” Mrs. Twiggs screamed at him from across the room. He turned with an orange sherbet mustache, his orange saucer eyes wide open. He fell off the table with a thud. He mumbled under his breath, shook himself off, and went back to his place by the fire.

As the clock struck six, the cars pulled up in front, jockeying for position on the crowded street. Mrs. Twiggs greeted each of the ladies with a hug, taking their coats and hanging them by the front door. She led them into the dining room, passing out cups of champagne punch. When they all had been served, Mrs. Twiggs said, “Ladies, please settle down.” The conversation ebbed into a single ongoing argument between Mrs. Loblolly and Mrs. Branchworthy, regarding family sides blue and gray. From listening to them, it sounded as if the Civil War were still being fought.

Mrs. Twiggs tapped her glass again while giving them an old schoolmarm stern glance. The ladies quieted down. Mrs. Twiggs cleared her throat and said, “Now, ladies, I know we all have questions for Charlotte, Emma’s niece. She came as quite a surprise to me, but I think it’s important we make her feel welcome, so let’s not overwhelm her.”

The ladies nodded in agreement, saying, “Yes,” “Certainly,” and “Of course.” The silver bell over the transom tinkled. Abigail glanced up, ran to greet Miss Hartwell and Charlotte. Abigail stopped and gave Charlotte the once-over. She was dressed in a designer wrap dress. Abigail smoothed out her rumpled T-shirt and glanced at the holes in her jeans. “Hi, I’m Abigail, Abigail Oakhaven.”

“Charlotte Tangledwood.” They nodded at each other.

“Okay,” Abigail said, taking Miss Hartwell’s light jacket and hanging it up. Miss Hartwell followed the noise into the dining room.

“I’ve always wanted to be invited to a meeting of the Ladies of the Biltmore Society,” Miss Hartwell said, entering the room where Mrs. Twiggs greeted her with a punch glass.

Abigail stayed behind to talk to Charlotte. “Hey, I wanted to warn you, they’ve all been talking about you and have a lot of questions.”

“You don’t have a smoke on you, do you?” Charlotte asked.

Abigail glanced behind to make sure I wasn’t watching, grabbed her leather jacket off the rack, and said, “Let’s go out front.”

I slipped out with them. I had to monitor Abigail to make sure she didn’t say anything until we knew who or what Charlotte was.

They sat on the wood bench in front of the store. It was an unseasonably cool evening for late April. I gazed at Abigail with narrow, disapproving eyes. She lit her cigarette and Charlotte’s anyway. “Is that your cat?” Charlotte asked.

“Not my cat. Kind of a mascot. She hangs around the store.” Abigail shrugged.

I emitted a low hiss and swiped at her.

“Not very friendly, is she?” Charlotte asked in between puffs.

They finished their cigarettes, putting them out on the ground before going back inside. “We better get this over with,” Abigail said.

The two girls stepped into the dining room. I tagged along behind them. “There you are,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Charlotte, these are the Ladies of the Biltmore Society, dear friends of your great-aunt’s.”

Charlotte shyly waved.

I heard a rustling in the storage room. The door was cracked. I peeked in to see a shadow crawling up the wall. I watched as the tail disappeared into the shadow mouth and Pixel muttered, “Yummy.” I felt my stomach growl. No matter how much I fight the feline urges, they still take me. I wanted to join in the hunt with Pixel.

I heard footsteps outside the storage room. I smelled Miss Hartwell and Charlotte. “Let’s make an early evening of it. There’s a lot to do before the estate sale,” Miss Hartwell said. “These old hens will be cackling all night.”

“Okay, Miss Hartwell,” Charlotte said.

After all the ladies had left, Mrs. Twiggs locked the door and settled onto the chair by the fire, raising her feet onto the stool. Abigail sat across from her, an early copy of Tom Sawyer in her lap. I jumped on the back of the chair and peered over her shoulder, purring. I had met its author on my earlier travels and found him charming.

Abigail reached up and rubbed my chin. My eyes closed, and sleep took me.