Through A Magnolia Filter

“Sorry.” He forced himself back to the car. “I hope I didn’t miss anything.”

“Maybe I should tape my tour guide talks.”

“Would you?”

She shook her head. “I was kidding.”

“I’m serious.” He turned toward her, their knees bumping. “Do you know much of how your ancestors got here?”

“Us? Our immigration was generations back. I don’t even know how many.” She shook her head. “Well, I do. My four-time great grandfather James Fitzgerald left Ireland in 1830. Came with some money and invested it in warehouses and shipping. Eventually, he was a part owner in the bank.”

“Facts just roll off your tongue. You’re some kind of walking computer, right?”

Her jaw clenched. “Something like that.”

They left the historic district. Squares no longer appeared every few blocks, but Spanish moss still swung from the massive oak trees, sheltering the streets. She pulled under a stone archway and into a small parking lot.

“We’ll walk from here.” She pulled her bag crossways across her chest. The strap molded her sweater to her breasts.

He shouldn’t admire the effect. She was essentially an employee.

He unfolded his legs. Grabbing his bag, he waved. “Lead the way.”

They walked between two weathered rock posts. Roads angled away from a building labeled Information. Avenues of oaks dressed with moss shaded the drives.

The cemetery stretched far as he could see. What a difference from the small graveyard set on a Kilkee hill where he’d buried his godfather.

He should find Michael FitzGerald’s grave in Ireland and see if he could find James Fitzgerald’s grave here in Savannah. He could use the two graves in the documentary.

Dolley led him deep into the cemetery.

Small stone borders, wrought iron fences or rounded tiles separated most of the family plots. There were headstones and markers. Some monuments had piles of stones on the memorials.

“Do they still bury people here?” His voice lowered in respect.

She nodded.

Their tree-lined road narrowed, changing to dirt, shells and sand. Birds serenaded them from the trees. In every direction, statues of angels, people and obelisks had blackened with soot or lichens. Some plots had signs that said Do Not Maintain. In those sections, headstones were tipped and weeds were knee-deep. Others were trimmed and looked like good spots for a garden party with their conveniently placed stone benches.

“When my great-grandmamma was young, they would picnic here. It was a social event.”

“They’d eat lunch in a cemetery?” On second thought, it sounded morbid.

“Over on the banks of the river.” Her smile crinkled her eyes. “We like eccentricities in Savannah.”

At a crossroads, signs pointed to different graves. Dolley stopped in front of a black iron picket fence. “This is Little Gracie Watson, probably the most photographed statue of Bonaventure.”

He knelt to peer through the pickets. The statue of the little girl was beautiful. Gracie sat wearing a dress that looked as if it would ruffle in the breeze. Her hair curled around her shoulders, and her eyes were magnetic.

“She was six when she died from pneumonia. A beloved fixture at Pulaski House Hotel, near Johnson Square.” Dolley’s smile was pensive. “The statue was made from a photograph.”

“It’s lovely.” The little girl’s face was sweet.

“There are rumors her ghost haunted the last people to live on the cemetery property. Of course that story could be made up for visitors.” Her smile was just this side of cheeky. In a deep voice she said, “They say her statue stays warm at night, as though it’s alive.”

Liam had a healthy respect for the spirits. “So you’ve been here at night?”

“Kids in high school would sneak over the fences.”

“Did you?”

“I was pretty studious, and we all needed to help Mamma with the B and B.” She shook her head. “I wish we could get inside the fence, but with so many people visiting her grave, they needed to protect Gracie.”

She pulled out her camera, squatting next to him. Her shutter clicked several times.

“Let me see,” he said.

She handed him a good quality Nikon. Her photos were nicely composed, clear.

“What emotion were you trying to evoke?” he asked.

She winced. “I wasn’t thinking about emotions.”

He tapped her nose, and she blinked. “Always think about what you want a viewer to feel. Even when shooting pictures of inanimate objects.”

“No one ever said that in any of my classes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you see that branch?”

She nodded.

He pulled out his camera, squatted, angling his body, and waited. The branch swung in the slight breeze and dropped into the frame. Click.

In the next picture he refocused on the bars, giving the photo an ominous feel.

“Depending on whether you’re going for eerie or happy, I’d suggest using black and white or color.” He handed Dolley his camera. “Especially if the branches behind Gracie flower.”

She scrolled through the ones he’d taken. “Your pictures are—sad. Bleak.”

“Good. I was thinking desolate. It would come across better in black and white.”

Her auburn eyebrows snapped together, shadowing her lovely green eyes. “Yes.”

“All great photographs evoke emotions, even when you’re looking at a landscape or cityscape.”

She looked up at him and sighed. “I have a lot to learn.”

“You just have to put your soul into your photos.”