Page 96 of Love At First Fright
“That’s so sad. Are the other kittens still at the house?”
“Yeah, I made them a little bed in the living room. Not that one, though.” He nodded at the ginger kitten through the window. “She’s a menace and refuses to sleep anywhere but the pillow of your old bed, so I hope you don’t mind sharing.”
He said it in that grumpy way that made Rosemary secretly suspect that he doted on the small kitten and had probably been the one to place her in Rosemary’s bed in the first place, not that he’d ever admit it. He popped the lock and Rosemary slipped into the seat, the kitten jumping all over her immediately, her tiny sharp claws digging into her legs.
“Aren’t you the cutest,” she cooed, lifting the kitten against her chest. Immediately, the kitten started kneading miniature biscuits into Rosemary’s forearms, nuzzling her head into Rosemary’s chest.
“See, I told you,” her dad said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “A menace.”
“What did you name her? She’s so tiny.”
“Tiny but feisty. Reminds me of you.” He chuckled. “I’ve been calling her Little Bee, because I found her sleeping inside your old black-and-yellow-striped rubber boots.”
“Bee. I like that, it suits her.”
Bee was clearly exhausted from making such a racket and all the excitement of the drive, and promptly fell asleep in the crook of Rosemary’s arm. It was significantly warmer here than it had been in England, but Rosemary was still wrapped up warm, covering Bee with her scarf like a little blanket.
She chatted with her dad on and off for the next hour as they left Atlanta and began the three-hour drive to Blossom Ridge. Her dad turned on the radio, and hummed along to old country songs, and her mind slowed as she took in the wide empty roads. She must have dozed off, because next time she woke up they were pulling left into the driveway of her home, the grand old oak tree, dripping with Spanish moss, that had been there longer than her family had, bending down crookedly over the mailbox and driveway.
Rosemary’s family home was a classic one-floor farmhouse with a wraparound white-decked porch and dark green shutters. Tall trees shaded the house from the worst of the heat in summer, and cocooned it in winter. Behind the house, currently obstructed from view, were the acres of flower and pumpkin fields, all lying dormant until spring. The flower hothouses were a little to the east of the house, right at the edge of their property. And right in the centre of their land, the old cherry tree. Her mama’s favourite place, and where they’d buried her.
Rosemary looked at the pair of empty chairs on the porch, and for a moment she half expected to see her mom sitting in her favourite spot. A blanket had been haphazardly tossed on one of them, and she could almost imagine that Mama had just stepped inside for a moment to make a batch of tea.
She’d always smelt like sweet tea and cherry blossoms, and for a moment Rosemary swore she heard her mother’s cacklinglaugh carrying on the air. But it had been twelve years. She’d looked for a spirit, even a remnant, but there was nothing. It was as Cecilia had said; there was a place after this, full of quiet peace, and that’s where her mama had gone. “You alright?”
She looked over at her dad. “Just miss her, you know.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know. So do I.”
They got out of the truck, her dad grabbing her suitcase as Rosemary carried the snoozing Bee, swaddled in her scarf, inside.
Rosemary sent Ellis a message to let him know she’d arrived safe and sound, along with a picture of Bee. He replied with a photo of him and Fig in the garden.
Rosemary pushed open the front door with its familiar creak, and was greeted by the scent of her childhood home: the ginger tea her dad drank, clean clothes drying on the radiators, and the sharp tang of woodworking varnish from the garage.
Everything looked the same, too, from her nana’s handmade quilt that rested across the back of the sofa in the lounge, to the family photos on the wall and the shabby red rug that travelled down the hall to the kitchen.
Christmas wasn’t a big deal in her house, but her dad had hung two stockings above the fireplace, and there was a stubby tree, ribboned with colourful lights, in the corner.
She hadn’t expected to be ambushed by four black-and-white kittens, tangling around her feet and meowing for attention. Bee decided that that was the time to wake up and stake her claim on Rosemary, digging her little claws into her arm and yowling up a racket.
“Settle down, settle down,” her dad said, nudging the door closed behind him. “I told y’all she was coming, and y’all promised to play it cool.” Her grizzled dad, notoriously not a manwho liked animals unless they were seasoned on his plate or in the farmyard, was talking to these kittens like he was their coach in a little league game. Her heart threatened to explode.
She crouched down, Bee spilling out from her arms to go play-fight with her siblings. It was apparent just how much smaller she was, her bright ginger coat sticking out in the bunch of black-and-white. Rosemary heard a deeper, softer yowl from the living room and watched a fully grown cat, a tortoiseshell, walk into the hall to break up their play-fighting when it got too rough. There was a glimmering sheen around the cat, and her feet padded silently on the floorboards.
“Their mama is still here,” Rosemary said. She crouched down and reached out a hand, the ghost cat coming over and giving her hand a head butt. She couldn’t feel anything but a wisp of momentary cold across her knuckles, like a soft exhale of breath.
“Their mama? Oh.” Her dad looked down at the empty space where Rosemary’s hand was outstretched. “Well, that’s good, she can keep them company while I’m out in the fields.”
Rosemary and her dad didn’t talk about her abilities that much, and he’d only asked her to look for a ghost once.
A couple of weeks after her mama died, her dad had asked her if she’d seen her ghost anywhere. He’d looked almost hopeful, and it had broken a part of her to tell him no. But last year, at Immy and Eric’s wedding, Rosemary had seen her mama again.
On Halloween night, she’d danced around a bonfire with Immy, Dina, and Nour, Dina’s mother. Each of them had held Babylon candles; they burned bright blue and for a few minutes, they were able to invite one loved one to dance with them around the fire. The spirits that came to see them weren’t ghosts exactly, as they had already crossed over to whatever lay beyond. No one else by the bonfire had been able to see them but Rosemary. She’d seen Dina’s aunties, who both looked likeyounger versions of Nour. She’d seen Immy with her grandmother, both of them with the same mischievous expression. And beside her, conjured back into this plane for a moment, was her mother. She had looked younger than Rosemary remembered her, her hair long and loose around her shoulders.
There were a million things Rosemary had dreamed about telling her mom again, if she ever got the chance, but in that moment, it had been enough to just be with her, dancing to a song they loved. She’d felt the warmth of her mother’s hands in hers, the scent of her sweet tea and rose soap in the air, and it was enough.
“I love you, Mama,” she had whispered, just before the candle guttered out. Her mother’s spirit had smiled, already fading, and for the first time since her death, a piece of Rosemary’s heart stitched back together. The next time she’d come home to visit, Rosemary had told her dad about that Halloween night.
