The Cherokee Rose. Tiya Miles
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Some of the pieces had belonged to the Hold family; others had been donated by wealthy patrons over the years. Cheyenne had read in Southern Living that the table settings in the Hold House were replicas of the fragmented dishware uncovered beneath the outdoor kitchen by a state archaeologist in the 1950s. The property would be auctioned with its contents intact, sold “as is.” Spacious by nineteenth-century standards, boasting three stories, eight rooms, broad hallways, back and front porches, and a cellar, the house brimmed with the contents of generations. And it could all be hers. It had to be.
Lanie Brevard led Cheyenne through the first floor with chatty narration about the upstanding families who had lived in the home before the museum opened. Cheyenne tried to tune her out. She wanted to focus on the house.
Back in the front hallway, where a half-opened cardboard box held forgotten copies of Chief Hold House brochures, Cheyenne turned with the broker toward the wooden staircase. They mounted the grand oak steps with carved balustrades, reached a large, superfluous landing crafted solely for show, and continued to the second story. At the front of the center hallway, a seating area flowed into a covered veranda that faced the road leading off the estate. Cheyenne turned on the crisp heels of her slender Bottega Veneta sling-backs to make her way to the master bedroom behind Lanie Brevard.
It was divided from the rest of the home by a lateral bridge that echoed the structure and form of the staircase. The oddly placed bridge connected the front and rear of the second story. It rose in an arch from the center hallway and crossed the open space of the downstairs hall. Cheyenne had read that architectural historians debated the reason the bridge had been built. Some said it represented the split sides of James Vann Hold’s racial identity; others argued it was Hold’s calculated attempt to keep his private life separate from the scrutiny of United States Indian agents and white missionaries.
Cheyenne crossed the elegant arch of the bridge, the sharp edges of her sling-backs digging into the floorboards. She faced the entry to a spacious bedroom and saw a closed doorway farther down the hall—leading up, she supposed, to an attic. She watched as Lanie Brevard unlatched the velvet rope that cordoned off the master bedroom, protecting its heirloom contents from long-gone tourists. Inside, Cheyenne’s gaze caught first on the full eastern view of the Blue Ridge, then on the hand-worked lace canopy atop the mahogany bedstead, and next on the folding antique game table splayed with period playing cards. The room had no proper master bath, but one could be added without even knocking down a wall. She moved to a chestnut wardrobe with an inlaid rose motif on the crest. Pulling it gently open, she marveled at the little drawers inside and stroked the silk of the chest’s inner lining. Cheyenne breathed in and out, gazing at blue-peaked mountaintops and feeling deep in her bones that this would be her bedroom. She turned to see Lanie Brevard watching, a sharp look in her eye.
“Miss Cotterell, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you just how much work goes into maintaining an old house like this. And you’re alone, as I understand it. This would be quite an undertaking. If you’re looking for a vacation property, we have a number of charming cabins and log homes on the market. I could show you a few right now.”
Cheyenne’s eyes narrowed. The woman was steering her. “I like a challenge, Ms. Brevard,” she said. “I like the Hold House.”
“I see. Then you have the right to know that members of the original Hold family . . . they tended to die under mysterious circumstances. There’s no evidence that this is a stigmatized property per se, but, well, who knows?”
“Mysterious circumstances? Is that right? Did you tell Mr. Allen that story, too?”
“Of course not.” The broker waved her hand in the air between them as if the suggestion were ridiculous. “Mason is local. We’re pretty close-knit here. I’m sure he knows all there is to know about this house.”
A high-pitched peal erupted from the hallway. The sound was not human.
“What was that?” Cheyenne jumped, hand flying to her chest.
“It’s bound to be a stray cat. This property is full of them.” Lanie Brevard smiled politely. “Like I said, a big undertaking.”
Cheyenne fingered the natural pearl in her left ear, dropped her fidgeting hand, and set her chin. “I like cats,” she said to the broker. “I’ve even been thinking about adopting a kitten.”
5
Jinx blazed down the interstate in her ruby-red pickup with a public-library audiobook blaring from the speakers. The braid of sweetgrass made for her by Great-Aunt Angie, the one she always traveled with and vowed never to burn, nestled in the crevice where the window met the dash.
She crossed the border into Tennessee at twilight and decided to stay over in Chattanooga on Sunday night. When she saw the billboard for the Chattanooga Choo Choo, the historic train depot converted into a pricey hotel, she imagined a long soak in a cool porcelain tub, plush white towels, and a cache of fancy toiletries. Turning off the highway, she pulled into a Super 8. After stashing her duffle and her messenger bag in a corner of the motel room, she twisted her braid into a knot, showered under the tepid spray, and dressed in jeans, a clean T-shirt, and high-top sneakers.
Jinx had to get back into the truck to find the main drag downtown, where she planned to forage for food and see what there was to see. She scooped up Coke cans, Twizzler wrappers, and used napkins, stuffing them into the crumpled McDonald’s bag from that morning. She dumped the trash into a can on the sidewalk and took in the street scene around her. People were out enjoying the warm night air, savoring the last summer holiday weekend. Jinx walked in the path of pairs and groups, passing clothing boutiques, gift shops, and antique stores flanked by potted urns of vibrant late-blooming flowers.
On a quieter corner, she found a used bookshop with the name Once Upon a Time stenciled above the entrance. A fat orange cat was sleeping in the display window. Jinx ducked inside. Helping herself to a sugar cookie from the yellow plate on the counter, she started a scan of the bulging shelves. The clerk, a rosy-cheeked older woman dressed up like Mother Goose, complete with downy wings, waved at her. Jinx did a double take before regaining her momentum while biting into a sweet, crisp wafer.
The store didn’t have a section on Native American history, but the American history alcove overflowed into stacks on the floor. In the Civil War section, she found an out-of-print biography of Stand Watie, the heralded Cherokee brigadier general in the Civil War. With one foot on a stepstool, she skimmed the first chapter. Watie’s story began in southeastern Cherokee territory, where she was headed that weekend. He and his brother Buck had both attended the mission school run by Moravians on the Hold Plantation, the place where Mary Ann Battis had ended up after she set the fire. Jinx flipped to the index. No Battis there. But the book was well worth the six-dollar price. It would make for good contextual reading once she pulled into Georgia and found a place to stay for the week.
She tucked the book under her arm and moved down the aisle, thinking about the sugar cookies but not wanting to leave any stone unturned. She was examining the women’s history shelves, pulling out books to read their title pages, when she stumbled on a great find: a hardbound volume with needle-thin black lettering. It was a reprint of an old Moravian church history, seven hundred pages long, no contents page, no index, no price. Jinx swung her messenger bag onto her shoulder, holding a book in each hand as she speed-walked to the counter.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Mother Goose said.
“I did. But this one”—Jinx pushed the navy-blue book across the counter—“doesn’t have a price on it.” Let me afford it, let me afford it, she thought.
Mother Goose studied her face, then the inside front and back covers of the book. “How much do you have?” she said.
“Twenty?”
“Plus six for the biography, plus tax, and it’s yours. Take care of it, now.”
“Great. Thanks.” Jinx dug into the pocket of her blue jeans, came up empty-handed, and unzipped a pocket of her messenger bag. “You know,” she said, handing over her only credit card and hoping she wasn’t too close to the limit,