I reached out to touch the book but paused, briefly reconsidering my desire to know the truth. But then I swallowed hard, promising myself that no matter what I found, it wouldn’t change my love for Whit. I opened the cover and frowned. “It’s a photo album.”
Dottie nodded and flipped through the first couple of pages. “Mmm-hmm.” She turned to another page and spun the book toward me so that I could see the photos.
I was stunned speechless as I stared down at the black and white image she tapped with one long hot-pink fingernail. It was a wedding portrait from what appeared to be the early days of photography. The 1840s, maybe? Because staring back at me from the page were faces I recognized, including that of Susanna, the forced bride of Josef Proffitt. He stood next to her, calm and stoic. Theresemblance to the other men in the Proffitt family I’d known as uncanny as it had been in my dream. And Susanna looked trapped, defeated.
But they weren’t the only faces I recognized. There were others. The drowned woman, Eliza, who would be Josef’s next bride. And a scowling man in the background that could’ve been Whit’s twin. My fingertips lightly grazed the man’s image, marveling at how even his aloof posture was familiar, before taking in the other individuals.
Standing to one side of Josef was a woman with blond hair pulled back tightly in a severe bun who looked exactly like Iris. And there were Earl and June, glamourous and stately. And was that Chase? He wore a mustache and sideburns fashionable for the day, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that was unmistakable. There were others in the group, people I didn’t recognize. But they were all clearly wealthy, smirking with some secret shared between them.
“What the hell?” I murmured, turning to another page. Josef again, this time a wedding portrait with Eliza. She appeared far happier than her sister had, but I knew her fate, had seen her death, so something certainly changed after she married her mysterious suitor. A sudden image of her lying in the water flashed in my thoughts, but I shook my head, banishing it.
I paged through several more photos, many of them featuring the others I’d seen in the first: June and Earl, Chase, Iris, the man who resembled Whit so closely it was unnerving. The locations varied, from countryside to bustling cities. The fashions evolved, representing the trends of different decades—everything from the wide hoop skirts and ridiculously tight corsets to the slimmer skirts and enormous puffed sleeves. And any wedding photos among them featured only the brides, women I didn’t recognize.
The next set of photos taken in Savannah appeared to be from the 1910s and once again featured a wedding, this time the images including both bride and groom. At first glance, I thought the groom was the same man from earlier photoswho looked like Whit. But then I realized the brow was too heavy, the expression too entitled to be him.
It was Josef Proffitt again.
My sense of relief at it not being the man I loved was so powerful, I almost laughed at how ridiculous it had been for me to even suspect it was Whit in the first place. Of course it wasn’t him! These pictures were from over a century ago. The whole thing was absurd.
But it was no less ridiculous to assume the groom was Josef Proffitt. The photos were clearly taken—what? Fifty, sixty years apart? If that was Josef Proffitt, he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Which was impossible! The resemblance was just a coincidence.Allof this was just a coincidence.
It had to be.
Then I saw the label beneath the photograph, scrawled in ink that had faded and nearly vanished over time. It wasn’t Josef Proffitt after all. It looked like him. Exactly like him from all the photos before. But that was not the name I read.
“What?” I breathed. “No…that’s not…”
Dottie tilted her head, regarding me with a sad smile. “What does it say, honey?”
I shook my head, trying to clear my vision, but the words remained the same. “Montgomery Proffitt.”
“Indeed,” Dottie sighed.
I frowned. “And Mary Alice Shay.”
Alice. The screaming woman.
“Shay?” I mused, lifting my eyes to Dottie. “A relative of yours?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
I hurriedly flipped to the next page. “Montgomery, Mary Alice, and David Proffitt.”
I tentatively touched the face of the small boy in the photo. It was the same boy who had peeked out from behind Henry’s bed, who had led me to the body of the woman in the wall.
“David,” I whispered. Then I pointed to the man in the photo. “This man looks just like Josef. But this has to be Mr. Monty’s grandfather. He was probably named after him. Right?”
Dottie didn’t respond. But I wasn’t sure I really wanted her to, too afraid of what she might say.
The next page featured Montgomery Proffitt again, perhaps only a couple of years later, maybe the 1920’s, but with another bride. And another group photo with the familiar faces of Dawes House, including a very stately looking Pearlie and Junior this time. And I recognized the young woman from my dream—Netty, but older now. Netty had to be a family name, passed down to a daughter or niece. BecausethisNetty couldn’t possibly be the Ms. Netty I knew, even though I could see a resemblance. The Netty in my dream had already been a teenager, maybe even in her twenties, old enough to talk to Alice as a friend and not as her elder.
But then standing next to the younger Netty, smiling broadly, clinging to Chase’s arm, was Merilee. And another man had joined the group—Carter Dean. The woman who held his arm looked familiar. She could’ve been Mary Alice’s sister.
This album, these photos, had to be either an elaborate hoax or the most dedicated historical reenactments I’d ever seen. At least, that’s what my brain kept insisting as I continued looking through the album, the photos taken through the decades—30s, 40s, 50s… Sometimes the man featured in so many of the photos was listed with a different name, but his face was always the same. The man who resembled Whit was sometimes present, sometimes not. In one photo from 1917 that I found tucked between pages, out of chronological order, he wore a US Army uniform. In another from 1942, he was again in uniform, but his face was still young and handsome, untouched by time.
I went back through the album several times, taking in each photo, studying it, trying to force the math of the years depicted to make sense. Henry grew bored at one point, so he and Dottie disappeared upstairs to Dottie’s apartment, returning with supper that I couldn’t eat, my stomach in too much turmoil. Later, they returned with freshly baked cookies, which Henry insisted I try.
“Mama,” Henry said, yawning, “I’m tired. When are we going home? Can I take Daddy some cookies?”
