I turned to see a woman in her late thirties standing behind me. She wore a strapless blush sundress and there were freckles across the pale skin of her chest and arms. A dark braid hung over one shoulder, secured at the end with a brass and ivory barrette in the shape of a bird.
She looked flustered for a moment, then she laughed. “Sorry. Sometimes I just blurt out whatever comes to mind. It’s Jim Morrison, I think. Or it sounds like the kind of dippy shit—oops—” She grimaced. “—stuff, he would say.”
Her accent made me think of every Flannery O’Connor and Eudora Welty short story I’d ever read in school. Pure Deep South. I smiled at her.
She offered her hand. “Althea Cheramie. I knew your grandmother. Sorry for the cursing.”
The name caught me, but only for a half second, and I recovered. This was one of the women from the family Dove had stayed in Alabama for.
“It’s fine.” I shook her hand. “Eve Candler.”
“I know.” She pulled me into a hug. I smelled cold water, like the smell of a creek, sweet flowers, and rich, dark earth. I felt dizzy for a moment, caught off guard by the embrace and the overwhelming sensation of being transported somewhere else. Somewhere old.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting you for so long,” she went on. “I only knew Dove for a short time, but she was very special to me. I named my daughter, Ruthie, after her.”
I nodded, trying not to let my feelings show. It wasn’t this woman’s fault, but what my grandmother had done for Althea Cheramie was more than she’d ever done for me. But that was Dove, through and through. Ready to go to the ends of the earth for a stranger.
“I have a box of Dove’s things for you in the car,” Althea continued. “There were some odds and ends, things she left in her house in Tuscaloosa when she moved back to California. The new owner just recently found them in the attic. I haven’t gone through it, but I think there’s some interesting stuff. Pictures and newspaper clippings.”
“Great,” I said. “The foundation has catalogued and archived most of her belongings. But they’re always happy to have more.”
“I could’ve mailed it to you—I’ve had it for months now, but I don’t know . . .” She paused. “I guess I sort of hoped I could give it to you in person.”
Someone jostled me, and I stepped aside to let them pass.
“Go. Do your thing. We can catch up later.” Althea waved at a broad-shouldered man in a tan suit who was herding two small children, a girl and a boy, up the walk.
I let myself be herded into the grand reception room and absorbed by the well-dressed crowd, then found a quiet corner to review my mental notes. The people here were the movers and shakers of Alabama. Politicians, business owners, and even a smattering of coal, timber, and iron ore heirs and heiresses. There was more money and political influence squirreled away in this state than anyone suspected. My job was to get it out of their pockets and into the foundation’s coffers.
Just as a server in crisp black put a flute of champagne in my hand, Mom appeared at my side with an older couple in tow. “Eve, I’d like you to meet the Lusters,” Mom said. “Darrell and Margaret. I was just asking them if they’d allow you and Griff to interview them for the documentary. Maybe after the dedication?”
“That would be perfect.” I shook hands with the silver-haired couple. “So nice to meet you.”
These were the big fish—Margaret and Darrell Luster. Darrell had started a successful commercial construction company back in the sixties. Margaret was the sole heiress of a fried chicken franchise out of Birmingham, now all over the country. The couple had all but signed on the dotted line agreeing to give the Jarrod Foundation over seven million dollars spread out over the next five years. Hooking them had been a huge relief, for me especially, but now my stomach dropped just at the sight of Mom commandeering them. Sweat slicked her temples and her hands danced at the woman’s shoulders.
I switched the flute I was holding over to my right hand and concentrated on a steady grip. My mind immediately calmed in response to the small action of therapeutic habit, and I felt the rest of me relax too. “We’re so grateful for your interest in the foundation, Mr. and Mrs. Luster. And for your incredible generosity. And yes, I’d love to get something on tape, if you’re open to being on-camera talent.” I turned to Mom. “You should head to the dais. They’re probably looking for you.”
I gave her a gentle push and she disappeared into the crowd. When I turned back to the Lusters, Margaret was staring intently at me. A birdlike woman wrapped in a sculptural pantsuit with a pair of enormous earrings that looked like welded hardware dangling from her lobes, she took my free hand in hers as if we were the only two people in the room. Her watery eyes laser-focused on mine.
“I’ve listened to every one of Charles Jarrod’s sermons,” she said in an even more syrupy accent than Althea’s. “Even a couple of bootleg tapes from the 1930s.”
I tried not to let my discomfort show on my face. She was one of the Dove and Charles super-groupies, as Danny and I used to call them (before Mom heard us and put a stop to it). Harmless, mostly, if you didn’t count the handful who’d broken into our house in the years since Dove’s death. They’d only ever done it when we were gone. And only taken cheap mementos—photos of Dove, a pair of her earrings, a scrapbook of her old pamphlets. These items were talismans of their hero. And in their world, one that operated not on logic and reason but on incomprehensible divine magic, a piece of Dove meant a piece of God.
But these folks were also our bread and butter, so I knew what to do. Suck it up and fawn.
I smiled. “Looks like we have a true-blue fan here.”
Margaret Luster shook her head, impatient. “What I’d really like to get my hands on are the other tapes. Dove’s earlier tapes.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” I glanced over her shoulder. Her husband had vanished, and suddenly I fiercely wished for his return. The hand holding the champagne flute had started to tremble just the slightest bit.
“Good afternoon, staff, friends, and honored guests.”
On the makeshift stage behind me, a young woman in an elegant white pantsuit stood at a podium. She wore black-framed glasses, nearly obscured by a curtain of neat twists, and gave the microphone a few taps.
“Are we on? Welcome to the official dedication ceremony for Pritchard Hospital’s new Dove Jarrod Building.”
A polite smattering of applause rippled through the crowd.
“And thank you to Bryant’s Catering for the refreshments.”
Margaret was still focused on me, her nostrils flaring determinedly. “The missing ones from the early days. When Dove was ministering with that other young girl. They called themselves the Hawthorn Sisters. They preached right here in Alabama.”
The moniker—Hawthorn Sisters—sent a strange electric thrill through me. I was used to hearing the groupies tell me about their encounters with Charles and Dove, but I’d never heard anything about any duo called the Hawthorn Sisters. Margaret must be mistaken. Or thinking of someone else. Dove had always been very clear about how, after escaping Pritchard, she’d come straight to California where she’d met my grandfather.