With that thought in mind, I decided to pick out one of Mom’s nicer cake plates. Just in case.
“I promise, once Cotillion is over, I’ll start dropping some things. I’ll need to focus on college stuff by then anyway.”
Mom didn’t seem particularly comforted by that, but she helped me move the cake onto the holder. “I hope Saylor appreciates all of this.”
Sighing, I lifted the cake. “You and me both.”
Chapter 14
David’s house was only a few blocks from mine, so it didn’t take long to get there. People who aren’t from the South imagine we all live in these big plantation houses like in Gone with the Wind, but the truth is, those are few and far between. Most of them were burned down during Sherman’s march to the sea in the Civil War. And if you do see one of those big wedding cake houses, chances are it was built in the past fifty years.
But Saylor Stark’s house was the real deal. Built in 1843, it was the oldest house in Pine Grove. According to The Aunts, it used to have a name. Ivy Hall, or Moss Manor. Something silly like that. The name had even been worked into the iron of the giant double gates. But Saylor had had new gates made when she moved in, something that, again according to The Aunts, was a supremely bad idea. “Houses are like boats,” Aunt May had sniffed. “They should always keep their original names.”
I didn’t know about all that, but I did know that the Stark house was one of the prettiest I’d ever seen. It wasn’t as grand and imposing as Magnolia House, but it was pretty in its own way. There was a wide front porch covered in ferns and white rocking chairs, and lamplight spilled out of the big windows lining the front of the house. Ivy crept up one brick wall, and the curving driveway was made, like the one at Magnolia House, out of crushed shells rather than gravel. I parked behind Miss Saylor’s Cadillac, and, gingerly taking the cake, headed up the brick steps to the front door. I was about to ring the doorbell when I heard Ms. Stark say, “Done with that paper.”
“I can’t,” David replied. I’d heard that tone of voice before. I didn’t have to see David to know that he was clenching his teeth and scowling.
“You can and you will,” Miss Saylor fired back. “No more late hours, no more riding around in fast cars with girls—”
“Oh my God,” David groaned. “Like Harper Jane Price is some kind of bad influence on me.”
“I want you to stay away from that girl,” Miss Saylor said, and I nearly reeled.
That girl?
Since when was I someone people called That Girl? That Girl didn’t wear pearls. She wasn’t SGA president. She didn’t volunteer her time on teen counseling hotlines. I was most definitely not That Girl.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” David said, his voice getting louder. I had the impression that was because he’d moved closer to the front door. “But since when do you care where I go or who I spend time with?”
“I have always cared,” she replied. “But I worry about you. I’m your aunt, David; that’s allowed.”
“Whatever,” David replied, and I cringed. Saylor Stark didn’t seem like the kind of woman you could say “whatever” to. “I’m nearly eighteen, and the last time I checked, that means I get to see who I want to see and go where I want to go. And right now, I’m going to the library.”
Wait, what?
Suddenly, the front door swung open.
Shoot.
David took a step forward, nearly bumping into me. His eyes widened as he pulled himself up short. “Whoa, sorr— Pres?”
And now Saylor was peering around his shoulder, and there I was, holding a stupid cake, which suddenly seemed less like a peace offering and more like a really bad idea.
“I was bringing this by to say sorry for yesterday. To both of you,” I added as Saylor moved forward. “You know, for the . . . the car driving and the recklessness, and the—the grabbing . . .”
With my free hand I started making this clutching gesture. I was talking about grabbing David’s shirt, but it looked like I was milking a cow.
Or worse.
My face red, I thrust the cake at David, who nearly stumbled backward. “Anyway, it’s hummingbird cake, and I know that’s your favorite, Miss Saylor, so . . . enjoy!” Ugh. It wasn’t like me to be this . . . awkward. And then, to make matters worse, I tripped a little in my hurry to get back down the steps and out of there as quickly as I could.
But I’d barely gotten to the driveway before Saylor called, “Harper!”
I turned around. “Yes, ma’am?”
Saylor waved her hand at me, diamonds catching the streetlights. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”
My palms were sweaty and I did my best to discreetly wipe them on my skirt. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, neither have we. I made chicken and dumplings. Why don’t you come on in and eat with us. Then we can try out this lovely looking cake.”
In all the years I’d known the Starks—and that was basically all my life—I’d never actually been inside their house. The temptation to see inside . . . well, I couldn’t resist.
“That would be nice, thank you,” I said, walking back up the steps. As I did, I noticed a set of wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. They were silver and shiny, and there was something weird about the shape of them. Musical notes?
Before I could look any closer, Saylor had an arm around my shoulders, guiding me into the house. It smelled a lot like my Aunt Jewel’s house—that comforting combination of scented candles, coffee, and something cooking. But that was where the similarities ended. While Aunt Jewel’s house was neat and full of light and space, the Stark house was so full I found myself negotiating around couches and ottomans. Every room was full of furniture, vases, picture frames, weird little porcelain statues of farm animals. It was like she’d raided every garage sale between here and Mobile.
Thankfully, Saylor’s dining room was the one room that wasn’t overstuffed, and I took a deep breath as Saylor gestured to one of the chairs around a long wooden table. “Sit down, honey,” she told me. To David, she said, “Give me a hand.”
While they disappeared into the kitchen, I sat down and took in Saylor Stark’s dining room. Like the rest of the house, it seemed slightly . . . crowded. Even the wallpaper was busy, covered in a pattern I couldn’t quite make out. There was a heavy curio cabinet in the corner, filled with all kinds of knick-knacks, and more pictures on the wall. I scanned the faces, wondering if any of them were David’s parents. Most of the pictures did seem to be of young, shiny-haired, smiling people, but none of them actually looked like David.
Frowning, I leaned forward, trying to see more clearly. But before I could, David came back in, a small stack of plates and some silverware in his hands.
“We need to talk,” I whispered quickly, darting a glance at the door to the kitchen. “After dinner. I think I found out some—”
“Here we are!” Saylor trilled, carrying a steaming pot. After sitting it on a terra-cotta trivet in the middle of the table, Saylor took the seat at the head of the table, David to her left, me to her right. The smell from the pot was mouth-watering, and I suddenly realized I’d been so nervous about Ryan that I hadn’t eaten lunch.
“My aunts make chicken and dumplings,” I offered. “My mom tries, but she can never get them quite right.”
Saylor gave me an indulgent smile. “The secret is white pepper. I bet your aunts know that. Which reminds me, I need to call your aunt Jewel. Can’t have Cotillion without her famous punch!”
I tried to hide my shudder. I loved Aunt Jewel, but her punch— a truly dreadful concoction made from white grape juice, ginger ale, Hawaiian Punch, and practically a pound of sugar—made my teeth hurt. Still, I nodded at Saylor. “She’d like that. And actually, speaking of Cotillion—”
But before I could say anything else, Saylor held one manicured finger up to her lips. “We can talk about that later. Let’s say grace first.”
She reached out her hand and took mine, lifting her other hand to David. He took it and then held his other hand out to me.
I laid my palm in his.
When I was eleven, my family was visiting my uncle’s farm and Leigh-Anne dared me to touch an electric fence. It had been stupid, but I did what my big sister asked. The shock had blown me off my feet and made my whole arm numb for nearly an hour.
What happened in Saylor Stark’s dining room felt a lot like that. Power surged through me, and every nerve in my body screamed. Saylor’s rings felt almost unbearably hot against my skin, and for one dizzying second, I thought I could smell something burning.
A screen dropped in front of my eyes, just like that day behind the church with David and Ryan. But this time, I couldn’t make any sense of the images. Girls in white dresses, a pool of red liquid on a hardwood floor. Chunks of glass—no, ice—flying through the air. And over the hum of whatever power was linking me and the Starks, the sound of screams. So much screaming.
Almost as suddenly as they’d begun, the images stopped, and suddenly, my hands were at my sides and I was staring at Saylor’s dining room table, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs.
“What—” I said, but Saylor was already getting up, moving so quickly her chair slammed into the wall, scuffing a black mark into the wallpaper.
“David!” she cried, and I turned to see that he was slumped on the floor, head in his hands. I thought the lights were reflecting off his glasses, but then I realized that that wasn’t it. His eyes were solid white.
As Saylor crouched next to him, cradling his head, David began to speak. “The night of the swans,” he muttered. “Power restored, a new era rises, but one must fall. One must give everything. Night of the swans . . .”
“Shhh,” Saylor murmured, smoothing his hair away from his face.
My own face still felt hot and when I glanced down, I saw that all the hairs on my arms were standing up.
