Amanda Stevens - The Restorer

“What about the epitaph? Or the designs on the headstone? What do they mean?”

“The epitaph is fairly standard Victorian verse and the symbols are open to interpretation. You ask five experts, you’ll likely get five different answers. And meanings can change from place to place and from year to year. Given the inscription and the age of the deceased, I’d say the severed willow bow symbolizes the sorrow of a broken family and the entwined morning glory vine represents resurrection. Morning glories were also used as a symbol of youth and beauty.”

“What about the feather at the bottom of the stone?”

“It suggests the flight of the soul, although it’s a little more ambiguous than a dove or a winged effigy.”

He glanced up. “What the devil is a winged effigy?”

“Just what it sounds like—a winged face, sometimes a skull. You’ll also hear them called soul effigies or death’s heads. These types of symbols are much more prevalent in the old New England cemeteries where the puritan stonecutters favored a more morbid and literal representation—skull and crossbones, bodies in coffins, skeletons…” I trailed off and glanced at him. “Sorry. I get a little carried away.”

“No, it’s all good stuff. Keep going.” He didn’t sound the least bit impatient at my rambling and I appreciated that.

“It wasn’t until the turn of the nineteenth century that gravestone art became more ethereal and symbolic and more open to a variety of interpretations, like the ones you see on this headstone.”

“So what you’re telling me is that the meanings of these symbols are sometimes in the eye of the beholder,” he said thoughtfully.

“They can be.” I tossed the pebble back into the basket. “Why don’t you come inside for a minute? If you really want to learn about gravestone symbology, I have some books you might find helpful.”

It probably wasn’t a good idea to invite him into my home, but he needed my help and at the moment his ghosts were safely tucked away behind the veil.

I led him into the house by way of the side garden, then through the kitchen and back to my office. The sunlight streaming in through the higher windows was soft and yellow and shimmering with dust.

Choosing a couple of volumes from my collection, I turned to hand them to Devlin. His gaze was riveted to a display of framed photographs on one wall.

He walked over to take a closer look. “Did you take these?”

“Yes.” His scrutiny made me oddly nervous. Other than the few I’d posted on Digging Graves, no one had ever seen my photographs.

“You double-exposed the film. Interesting the way you superimposed all those old graveyards over cityscapes. There’s a definite theme and point of view. Also, a hidden message, I suspect.”

I came to stand beside him. “Not really. Like gravestone art, the message is in the eye of the beholder.”

He studied the images for a moment longer. “I find them…lonely. Beautiful, but intensely lonely. They make me uneasy.” He glanced at me then. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

“I didn’t take it as one. I’m glad they make you feel.”

His gaze lingered, searching. “You like cemeteries, don’t you?”

“They’re my livelihood,” I said with a shrug.

“I’m guessing they’re more than that.” He turned back to the pictures, frowning. “There’s a sense of isolation, but not in the graveyards. In the cities. Within the people. These images are very revealing, I think.”

I suppressed a shiver. His observation made me feel exposed and vulnerable. “I wouldn’t read too much into them. I like playing around with interesting compositions and different techniques. There’s no deep meaning here.”

“I disagree,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a discussion best left for another day.”

“Here.” I handed him the books. “Why don’t you browse through these while I go wash my hands?”

I left him perched on the edge of a corner chaise, thumbing through one of the volumes, while I hurried down the hallway.

In the bathroom, I washed my face and hands, resuscitated my ponytail and pulled on a clean T-shirt. Beyond that, I didn’t bother with the mirror. I tend to be a little too hard on myself even though I’m aware of my attractiveness. I’m what people call a quiet pretty. Blond hair, blue eyes, a nice complexion and a generous mouth. I’m thin but my muscles are strong and taut from all those years of working in cemeteries. I enjoy my share of admiring glances, but in no way would I ever be considered exotic or sultry, like the woman who haunted Devlin. Why that mattered to me even a little bit was not something I cared to contemplate.

I couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes, but when I returned to my office, I found Devlin stretched out on the chaise, sound asleep. One of the books rested on his chest, the other on the floor beside him.

This was an unexpected turn of events.

I walked over to his side and stared down at him. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and I resisted the urge to sweep it aside.

Touching him was out of the question. So I said his name instead, but he didn’t rouse.

He looked so deeply under, I was a little apprehensive about startling him awake. He was an armed police detective, after all.

I stood in a quandary, wondering if I should just let him sleep. He was probably exhausted and he looked so peaceful. But this was odd. A first for me.

Taking advantage of the situation, I gave him another thorough appraisal. He had a scar beneath his bottom lip that I hadn’t noticed before. It was small but indented, as if something very sharp had punctured the skin. A knife, perhaps. The thought of that drew a shiver.

My gaze traveled downward to where the silver medallion nestled in the hollow of his throat. When I leaned in to get a better look at the insignia, another strange thing happened. I grew suddenly breathless. Not the fluttery feel one gets from excitement or fear, but a paralyzing sensation akin to having the wind knocked out of me.

I stumbled back and put a hand to my chest. Whoa.

Devlin muttered something in his sleep, and I scurried away even farther, bumping into the desk and dropping, weak-kneed, into my chair. My gaze went back to him as I nervously tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. What just happened?

I tried not to overreact, but that pressure in my chest was very uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to make of the experience.

Finally as my breathing eased, I decided it was just some weird by-product of nerves or an overstimulated imagination. Forcing my attention away from Devlin, I turned on my laptop to check the responses to last week’s blog entry— “Graveyard Detective: Sleuthing for the Dead.” A prescient article, as it turned out. Which made me a little apprehensive about my next topic—“Sex in a Cemetery: Graveyard Taboos.”

I shot Devlin another look. Still fast asleep.

An hour passed before he finally stirred. He opened his eyes and glanced around in confusion. When he saw me staring at him, he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise and scrubbing his face with his hands.

“How long have I been out?”

“An hour, give or take.”

“Damn.” He glanced at his watch, then ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Sorry. I never do that. I don’t know what happened.”

I shrugged. “It’s a cozy spot with all that sunlight. I always get a little drowsy myself when I sit there.”

“It was more than drowsy. I was dead to the world. I haven’t slept that hard since…” He paused, frowned, then glanced away.

I wondered what he’d been about to say. “You had a late night. You’re probably exhausted.”