“There’s your school.” Bea cuts into my thoughts as we pass a sprawling brick building with an ornate sign that reads Pointe Laveau Academy in Victorian script, just like the entrance gate. The parking lot is full of expensive sports cars, and two impossibly thin girls in white oxfords, maroon plaid skirts, and knee socks walk across the lawn, deep in conversation.
“Isn’t there a public school in town?” My skin itches just thinking about wearing a uniform, never mind fitting in with a bunch of rich kids.
“There is,” Aunt Bea answers lightly, “but your great-grandmother founded Pointe Laveau Academy, and it’s where your grandma, your mom, and I went.”
I’m about to argue, but then I look out the window and realize the sun has slipped behind the clouds, casting long, eerie shadows over the cemetery we’re about to pass on the edge of town. Suddenly, a vivid memory hits me like a punch to the gut.
It’s my mother’s funeral, and I’m standing amongst soaring white tombs, my eyes sore from crying. A man with sandy hair and dark sunglasses slips from the shadows and bends to speak to me, his voice low, his words fast. “You must listen to me, Eveny, I don’t have much time.” He’s a stranger, but there’s something familiar about him. “They’re coming for you. You have to be ready.” He melts back into the shadows before I can ask what he means. . . .
I gasp and push the image away as I try to catch my breath.
Aunt Bea looks at me sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just a weird memory.” I hesitate. “Of Mom’s funeral.”
“Honey, you were only three then,” Aunt Bea says gently. I don’t think I’m imagining the concern on her face. “What are you remembering?”
I feel silly, because how can I recall someone I’ve never met, someone who left before I was even born, someone I’ve only seen one picture of in my life?
“I think my father was—” I start to say, but the words get caught in my throat as I notice a shirtless guy jogging around the outer rim of the cemetery, his head bent, his caramel-colored skin glistening with sweat. He looks up as we pass, and for an instant, our eyes meet, and it feels like the world slows on its axis. Then, just as quickly, we’re moving past him toward the south side of the graveyard.
“Who was that?” I ask, spinning around in my seat to look out the back window. The guy has stopped running and is standing in the middle of the road, staring after us. His muscular chest rises and falls as he catches his breath.
“Who?” Aunt Bea asks, glancing in the rearview.
“That guy running around the cemetery,” I say. “He was about my age.”
“Honey, we’ve been gone fourteen years,” she points out gently. “He would have been a toddler last time we were here.”
“Oh, right.” My heart sinks a little.
I turn back around as the road winds up the middle of three small hills that sit on the south side of the cemetery. Ahead of us, at the top of the slope, looms a huge white house, a mansion really, and I’m hit with a sudden wave of memories. As we follow the drive around to the front, I take in the Gothic columns, the enormous Gone With the Wind porch, the steps leading down to a sprawling, immaculately maintained lawn. A thin veil of fog swirls around the property.
“This is . . . ours?” I ask. But I already know the answer. I remember my mother teaching me how to ride a tricycle in the driveway; I remember doing lopsided cartwheels in the yard; I remember being happy here. How had I managed to mostly block this place out? And more importantly, why have we been living in a tiny Brooklyn apartment when we own a place like this?
“Actually,” Aunt Bea says, “it’s yours.” When I turn to look at her, she’s already watching me closely. “Welcome home, Eveny.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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2
I’m still standing outside the passenger door of the car, staring up at my house—my mansion —when I feel a warm hand on my arm. Startled, I spin around and see an old man peering at me.
“Eveny,” he says in a low, rumbly voice. His dark brown skin is a sharp contrast to his snow-white hair. He must be at least seventy-five, but his wide gray eyes are startlingly clear.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, my heart still pounding.
He beams at me. “From the garden. I didn’t mean to scare you, dear. Do you remember me? I’m Boniface. Boniface Baptiste.”
“Boniface? Geez, of course,” I say. He was the house’s caretaker when I was little. He was around all the time, and he even used to babysit me sometimes when my mother and Aunt Bea ran errands together. “You still work here?”