The Restorer

“Thanks.”

“Now let me see those hands.”

I held them out for inspection and she sighed. “Always, always wear gloves. It’s essential working outside the way you do. The hands are a terrible betrayer of a woman’s age.”

I looked down at my callused palms. They did look a little worse for the wear.

Mama had disappeared inside the house, but she came back out a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade, which she handed to me as I plopped down on the top step.

“You’re staying for supper.” I’d always loved the way she said “suppah.”

Since it wasn’t a question, I merely nodded. “What are we having?”

“Chicken and biscuits. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Collard greens. Sliced tomatoes. Roasted corn. Blackberry cobbler for dessert.”

“My mouth is watering already.” It seriously was, particularly for the homegrown vegetables.

“I never could fry chicken worth a flip,” Lynrose mused as she settled back down in a green metal glider, the gentle sway almost hypnotic in the somnolent heat. “It’s an art, you know. I must have tried a hundred different recipes over the years. Buttermilk batter, cornmeal breading, you name it. Finally just gave up. Now when I have a hankering for a drumstick, I get takeout, but it’s not the same.” She sighed. “Etta got the cooking gene in our family.”

“And you got the gift of gab,” Mama said.

I smiled as Lynrose flashed me a conspiratorial wink. She was the only person I knew who could tease out my somber mother’s sly sense of humor. When I was a child, I loved when she came for visits. Mama always seemed so carefree with her sister.

The last time I’d seen them together was a month ago when Mama had driven into Charleston for her birthday. She’d spent the weekend with Lynrose and the three of us had gone out to celebrate. We’d had enough wine with dinner to laugh ourselves silly over some ridiculous play my aunt had dragged us to. I’d never seen my mother so giddy. It was a sight to behold. She’d turned sixty that day, but neither she nor my aunt looked a day over forty. I’d always thought them the most beautiful women in the world. I still did.

Now I searched my mother’s features, hoping to find a bit of that same girlish mirth I’d witnessed on her birthday. Instead, I noticed how fragile and gaunt she looked. How tired she seemed. The dark circles under her eyes reminded me of John Devlin.

A shiver ran through me and I glanced away.

“Where’s Papa?” I asked.

“Rosehill,” Mama said. “He still likes to putter around out there even though the county hired a full-time caretaker last year.”

“Did he finish the angels?”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Yes. They are quite something, aren’t they, Lyn? You’ll have to go down and take a look at them before you leave.”

“I will.”

“Speaking of angels,” my aunt said lazily. “Do you remember Angel Peppercorn? Tall gal with a rather unfortunate overbite. I ran into her the other day in a little tea shop on Church Street. You know the one I mean, Amelia. Has that cute black-and-yellow awning? Anyway, turns out her son, Jackson, is in the movie business. She says he’s a famous director out in Hollywood, but I heard through the grapevine he’s in the adult entertainment industry. I can’t say I’m surprised. Always was something a little perverted about that boy,” she said with malicious glee.

As my aunt prattled on, I began to relax, letting my worries over Mama’s health and those dark memories of Oak Grove slip away. We spent a pleasant afternoon gossiping on the front porch, only stirring when Mama rose to start dinner. My aunt and I offered to help, but she would have none of it.

“I don’t know which of you is more helpless in the kitchen,” she said. “Last thing I need is the both of you under foot.”

After she went inside, I settled back against the post as my aunt launched into a new story. I waited for a lull, then said casually, “Aunt Lynrose, are you acquainted with any Devlins in Charleston?”

“Would that be the South of Broad Devlins?” she asked, naming the most prestigious and historic area of the city.

“I don’t think so. The Devlin I met is a cop.”

“Probably not one of the Devlins then. Unless he’s a distant cousin. Plenty of those around, I would imagine, since their roots go all the way back to the seventeenth century. Of course, they’re dying out now. Bennett Devlin’s only son and daughter-in-law were killed in a boating accident years ago. The grandson came to live with him for a while, but they had a falling out. I seem to recall hearing that the boy got himself involved in some scandal or other.”

My ears perked up. “What kind of scandal?”

“The usual. Fell in with a bad crowd, took the wrong sort of wife.” She shrugged. “I’ve forgotten the particulars.”

I tried to recall if I’d seen a wedding ring on Devlin’s finger. I was pretty sure I would have noticed something like that.

“You say the Devlin you met is a cop? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?” my aunt teased.

“Hardly. I’m doing some consulting work for the Charleston Police Department.”

“My goodness, that sounds important.” She eyed me with unabashed curiosity.

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I drove up this afternoon. I wanted to tell Mama before she heard about it from someone else. A body was found in the cemetery where I’ve been working. A murder victim.”

“Lord have mercy.” My aunt pressed a hand to her heart. “Chile, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I was never in any danger,” I said, conveniently ignoring the stolen briefcase. “My involvement is minor, but my name was mentioned in the Post and Courier article this morning. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”

“I spent the night here with Etta. I haven’t even looked at a paper.”

“Anyway, Detective Devlin asked that I be present for the exhumation and I agreed.”

“You mean you were there when they dug up the body?” Aunt Lynrose held out her arm. “Look at that. You done gave me chills.”

“Sorry.”

I caught a movement behind the screen door and wondered how long my mother had been standing there listening to us.

“Mama? You need some help now?”

“You can go find your papa, tell him we’re ready to eat.”

“Okay.”

As I walked across the front yard toward the road, I heard the screen door squeak. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Mama had come out on the porch and she and my aunt were speaking in low tones the way they once had when I was little. This time, I was pretty sure they were talking about me.

Instead of driving around the road, I took the shortcut through the woods and went straight back to the old section. The gate was locked, but I knew where Papa had always kept a spare key.

I let myself in, closed the gate behind me, then wandered down a soft incline, along fern-edged pathways and through thick, silvery curtains of Spanish moss to the angels.

There were fifty-seven of them.

Fifty-seven angels adorning fifty-seven tiny graves. The victims of a fire that had ravaged an orphanage in 1907.

The people in the surrounding counties had taken up a collection to buy the first angel, and every year thereafter, a new one had been added, except during the two world wars and the Great Depression.