Up at the podium, the woman in the white pantsuit was still talking. “My name is Beth Barnes. I’m director of operations for our newest program, the Bridge. It’s a groundbreaking modality we designed to address women’s issues in a safe and therapeutic environment. Thanks to Dove Jarrod’s personal contribution, we’ll have the honor of operating out of this spectacular, historic facility.”
More applause and now the clinking of glasses.
Margaret Luster gave my free hand a squeeze. Her eyes glowed with a strange light. “The other girl was from a prominent family up in Florence. Lumber, I think. Anyway, the story is that back in the mid-1930s the Hawthorn Sisters held revivals and performed all sorts of miracles.”
She whispered this last word, and I gritted my teeth. Hyperbole was part of the deal with these people, and she’d obviously mistaken Dove for some other female itinerant Southern preacher.
“There’s so much power in the old ways, you know?” she said. “Those folks preached with such fervor and conviction. Such unwavering faith. Not like the watered-down, feel-good stuff you see on TV now. No, no, no. I tell you, these people had the real fire.”
I spotted a server across the reception room holding a full tray of drinks, downed the remainder of my champagne and snagged another.
“In fact, I’ll kick myself if I pass up the opportunity while I have you . . .” She pulled me even closer, so close I could see the web of fuchsia lipstick that had bled into the creases above her thin upper lip. “Will you pray for me . . . right now? I have a condition. Myocardial ischemia. It’s a blockage in the arteries and can cause all sorts of problems. Heart attack, blood clots, strokes—”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I stammered. “But I’m not—”
“Just real quick like.” Her hands were tiny, warm claws on mine. “We could go to the ladies’ room.” Tears filmed her bright eyes. “I just feel like the Lord brought you to me, here in the place where Dove’s life began. I think He brought you here to bless me in a way I’ve never been blessed before.”
I started to feel lightheaded, the churn of resentment and empathy making me feel sick to my stomach. This woman was facing a potentially deadly diagnosis; she was scared and desperate, and because of who she believed my grandmother to be, she was asking me for help. But what could I do? Nothing. And now my right hand was shaking violently, the full flute of champagne sloshing.
I pulled loose and stepped back, bumping directly into Danny. “I’m sorry. I just can’t . . .” I clutched frantically at his arm. “Margaret, would you excuse me? I need to sort out a few logistical issues with the film with my brother.”
She extended her hand to Danny. “Margaret Luster. So pleased to meet another grandchild of the great Dove Jarrod.”
“Likewise.” Danny took my arm.
“We’ll catch up later,” I assured her as Danny hustled me away. We ended up at the foot of the red-carpeted staircase and, relieved, I put the flute on a small table.
“Who was that?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Our newest donor.”
“Are you okay?”
I was sweating, I realized. Trembling all over now. “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but I waved him off and he nodded up at Dove’s portrait. “I keep expecting her to step out of that painting and tell us what she saw here, back in the day.” He sighed. “I’m going to go look for coffee. Find me after the fun’s over.”
He left and I climbed a couple of steps toward the second-floor landing. Beth Barnes was now well into her speech.
“Dove Jarrod and her husband, Charles, were perhaps the most well-known traveling evangelists in the thirties and forties, and she continued the work of their ministry even into the eighties. They led revivals in every state in the US and traveled to dozens of foreign countries as well.”
Someone in the crowd murmured a soft “amen.”
“They met with presidents and kings, dignitaries and even a dictator or two. But they ministered to the common folks as well and were honored with all kinds of awards from religious and charitable organizations.”
I climbed a few more steps. Thick carpeting sank under my feet and I ran my fingers along the glossy railing. I looked out over the crowd, then up toward the windows that lined the gallery.
“—but before Dove Jarrod was Dove Jarrod, she was Ruth Davidson, and before that, Ruth Lurie. She had many trials, but she never forgot where she came from. She never forgot the injustices she witnessed here at Pritchard. The abuse and death of her mother. The torture of so many innocent people . . .”
I felt a chill work its cold fingers up my spine. I could see it now. The reason Dove had willed the bulk of her estate to restore this part of Pritchard. It was because the place had been a nightmare—for her and so many others. And Dove knew, maybe better than anybody, that only money, not some miracle from above, could turn it into a force for good.
Poking around online archives while prepping for the documentary, I had come across some pictures of Pritchard in the twenties and early thirties. The photos, even in black and white, had made my stomach roll. Filthy, peeling walls, cornices laced with rot and mold. And then there were the patients. Ragged, dirty. Gaunt and grim. I expect, at one point or another, they had all begged God to save them from the horror. But He hadn’t, had He? And Dove had saved herself.
I’m not the one who can give you your miracle. All I can do is tell you the truth . . .
Beth continued. “The Pritchard legacy encompasses so much, good and bad, fine and ugly. Noble and debased. It is a shame to our state, a blot in our history books. And yet, at the same time, in a strange way, it is a triumph . . .”
I turned my gaze from Dove’s portrait to the wide hallway and closed my eyes. I could almost see her. A girl, twelve years old, thin from the lack of food, pale, probably, with short burnished red hair. Standing barefoot on that second-floor landing. Smiling.
Smiling. Like she had a secret. A plan . . .
“. . . a beacon for all those who struggle with mental health issues and for those who advocate for them,” Beth was saying. “As they embark on a journey toward wellness . . .”
I turned to the screen beside the dais where they’d started rolling Griff’s footage—a three-minute sizzle reel he’d roughed together back in LA. Stills of Charles and Dove over piano music, a sepia reenactment of an old-fashioned tent meeting. Slo-mo shots of the Jarrods’ house, their home church, a few recipients who’d benefitted from the foundation’s gifts.
My phone buzzed.
I’m outside getting some exteriors. Can you pop out for a sec?
The reel was still going, everyone watching in rapt silence. No one would notice if I slipped out for a few minutes. I headed down the stairs and threaded my way through the crowd.
Outside, the sky had gone a soft dark blue, the heat finally starting to settle. Cicadas buzzed in a deafening chorus in the dark beyond, but closer to the edges of the gravel parking lot, fireflies circled. And the dove. He was still going at it too, which seemed strange. I thought they only sang during the day.
I stopped at the end of the stone walk. To my right, in the middle of the expansive lawn, the thorny, blooming tree glowed in the moonlight. I scanned the opposite side of the lawn but saw nothing. The parking lot was deserted too, from the looks of it, and beyond that, a field and a line of shadowy woods in the distance.