Breathe - Chapter 1

Breathe
(David C. Cook; New edition June 1, 2009)


Chapter 1

March 1883 Odessa tried to shove back the wave of fear as the slow suffocation began. It was too much, this long ride west. Three days they had been on cursed trains chugging across endless tracks—three days! Hours of dust and dark, choking smoke from the train, the sweet-sour body odor from fellow passengers. She could even smell herself, and the combined force seemed to pour sand in through her nose and down into her lungs, filling them, filling them like two sacks of concrete.

Her father had meant for her to chase the cure; instead, she was merely hastening her own demise.

“Odessa? Dess!” Dominic said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Moira, quick. Dampen this handkerchief.”

Odessa closed her eyes and concentrated on each breath, her brother’s voice, her sister’s movement. She willed herself not to panic, not to give in to the black demon that loomed over her. This was worse than before. The creature had moved in and around her, tormenting her as he sat upon her chest.

“Dess, here. You must take your laudanum. Just this once. You’ve made it this far; we’ll be there within hours.” Odessa could feel the cold stares of the people in the seats next to them as she sipped from the blue bottle. She knew she was not the only consumptive patient on this train, but the healthy passengers seemed to consider all of the consumptives a nuisance. She had not the strength to care at this point.

She had to keep herself from coughing.

To begin coughing was to never stop.

But her throat, the mucous, the tickle, the terrible desire to try and take a deep breath, to give it just one attempt, one huge cough to clear the way, to free her from the storm cloud that covered her now, roiling like a summer thunderhead. Oh God, she cried silently. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Don’t let me die!

Visions of her little brothers filled her mind. Gasping piteously. Blue lips, blue fingernails, eyes rolling back in their heads. Michael, thirteen; Clifford, eleven; Earl, eight; tiny Fred, only three … “Dess,” Dominic said urgently. “Dess!”

She could feel herself sliding sideways, her head spinning. She knew it improper, such public loss of control, but she was helpless, giving in to the dark demon that was casting her about, twirling her about like a chicken on a spit.

Dominic picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the floor between the seats. From far away, she could tell he was placing his coat beneath her head. She could feel the rough woolen fibers at her neck. But how was that possible? Spinning at this rate—

“Stay with us, Odessa St. Clair,” he called to her firmly. “We are almost there! Fight it! Fight back! Stay with us!”

It was as if he called to her from the mouth of a long, dark cave. Could he not see the monster? The demon cloud that was spiriting her away? How was she to fight such a thing? Why did they call it the White Death when it was dark, so dark?

The laudanum, the blessed drug, moved through her and began its soothing work. She did not wish to be the latest St. Clair invalid, wasting away of consumption, wasting away the family money, the family’s time, the family’s attentions. If she was not strong enough to chase the cure, she didn’t deserve it at all. She had to find it within her, the hope, the desire, hovering somewhere deep within. Was it even there any longer?

Moira returned to her side and placed a delicate white handkerchief over her nose and mouth, cool and light and smelling faintly of soap—clean, clear soap. It reminded Odessa of her mother, of years ago when she would come to Odessa’s sickroom to care for her, to nurse her back to health. She wanted to thank her sister, knowing this collapse was embarrassing her, embarrassing them all, but she could not find the breath to utter one word.

“Nic!” Moira said in alarm. Was she outside, floating away from Odessa? Or was Odessa floating away from them? Out of this train, out of her cave, breaking free?

“Is there a doctor on the train?” Dominic yelled. “Is there a doctor? Can anyone assist us?”

“You listen to me,” Dominic said lowly and fiercely in her ear, suddenly right beside her. “You are not going to die on this train. You are going to reach the sanatorium and regain your health. You have a life ahead of you, Odessa St. Clair. A life. Not as an invalid. But as a vital, healthy woman. You will know freedom. You will beat this curse on our family. We will be friends into our old age. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Odessa?”

“Is there a doctor aboard this train?” Dominic yelled as he watched Odessa slip into unconsciousness. He looked down the aisle of the rocking, swaying train car, meeting the doleful glances of thirty other passengers. No one moved to help. Moira, his younger sister, wept behind her hand. Odessa grew more lax in his arms. Never had he felt so helpless. What had Father been thinking? He could barely keep himself out of trouble; he was supposed to watch over his sisters, too?

He rose, Odessa in his arms. “Is there anyone who can help us?” he cried.

Halfway down the car, a man rose, hat in hand, and a woman beside him. They hesitantly made their way toward the St. Clairs. Nic studied their faces, then saw the man’s collar. A preacher. Nic looked over his shoulder, hoping another was rising, a physician, a nurse, anyone. But no one moved.

“Not the doc you’re seeking, man,” said the tentative preacher. “But it looks like we’re the only ones. Why don’t you put your wife—”

“Sister.”

“Put your sister down, and we’ll pray over her. Heading to the sanatorium, I take it? Best there is in these parts.”

“And not far,” put in his wife. “We’ll be there soon.”

Nic studied them a moment longer, then glanced down at Odessa in his arms and Moira on the floor in a heap. “Quit your weeping, Moira,” Nic hissed. “And get back on the seat. She’s not dead yet.” Her tears chafed at him, made him feel more helpless.

Moira only cried harder, but she rose and went back to the bench seat by the window as instructed. Nic gently set Odessa down beside her, head in Moira’s lap, then moved aside to let the preacher and his wife gain entrance to the bench seat facing them.

Moira kept crying, her slender shoulders shaking, one hand on her unconscious sister’s forehead, the other on the handkerchief dabbing at the corner of her eyes. Her face depicted the same horror Nic felt inside.

He pinched his temples between his third finger and thumb, trying to think his way out of this. “Use your brain as well as your brawn,” Father had said to him as they said good-bye in Philadelphia. “I’m counting on you as a St. Clair.” If he failed in this, failed his father again, here on the border of hope, if he failed his sisters … But try as he might, he could not think of what else to do.

“Nothing to do but pray,” said the preacher, staring up at him, waiting, as if reading his thoughts. The preacher’s wife stood beside him, silently seeking his permission with her eyes. Odessa was still deathly pale and her breathing now emerged as a tight, wavering whistle.

“No other option, I guess,” Nic groused. “Go to it.”

The preacher stared at him with eyes of understanding and pity. “It’s in God’s hands for sure, friend. Let’s ask Him to help her make it to the sanatorium. Let’s ask Him to restore her to life itself. Will you join us?”

Nic pulled back a little. “No. I mean, you do what you need to. I’ll … I’m going to go and ask the conductor how long until we reach the Springs.” He turned away and headed down the aisle.

The preacher’s wife handed Moira a clean handkerchief and patted her arm. “What’s her name?” she asked softly. There was something in her voice that soothed, warmed Moira. Something that reminded Moira of her own mother, dead and gone a year now.

“Odessa,” she whispered.

“Your older sister?”

Moira nodded. “By two years.” She smiled and stroked Odessa’s cheek. How many times, growing up, had Odessa held her, comforted her, nursed her when their mother had been so busy with the boys? “Do you think God will hear us?” she whispered, the woman’s face swimming through her tears. “That is, do you think He’ll actually save Odessa? I’ve never seen her...so poorly.”

“I hope so,” the woman returned, reaching out to squeeze Moira’s hand. “All we can do is ask and hope. Hope.”

Moira glanced up to see her brother pacing, waiting to talk to the conductor, clearly not wanting to rejoin them. He had refused to go to church ever since their mother died, claimed he wanted nothing to do with a God who would rob them of so many dear ones.

Nic had gotten into trouble again and again; he’d even gone to jail for brawling. It had horrified her father, infuriated him. Nic claimed Moira’s incessant desire to perform, sing, had brought their father so low, but Moira thought Nic’s troubles and Odessa’s illness were the more likely cause.

Moira looked back down to Odessa, stared at her hard when she realized she wasn’t moving, wasn’t even taking the tiniest of breaths. “Odessa! Odessa!” she screamed. She cast desperate eyes toward her brother, and he came barreling back down the aisle. The preacher and his wife were on their knees beside Odessa, heads bowed, praying. Heart filled with dread, Moira forced herself to look back to her sister, terrified she’d see the same death mask steal over her lovely features as she’d seen on their brothers, their mother.

“Here, let me take her,” Dominic demanded, roughly squeezing between the preacher and his wife, pulling Odessa from Moira’s arms.

“Don’t be so rough, Nic!”

Nic ignored Moira and stared only at their sister. “You hold on, Odessa St. Clair. We are just minutes away. You hold on. This is where it begins, your new life. Wake up, wake up and see the mountains. See your new home. It’s beautiful, Dess. Beautiful. Wake up.”

Beat this curse. Fight it. Wake up. Odessa considered his words from far away, as if she were a judge hearing both sides of a case. She could give in to this demon, let it spirit her away, so her siblings could bury her at the foot of the towering Rockies and be free to open the bookshop, live their lives without her as a burden. Or she could find the sword at her side and strike back at the curse of her family, this dark cloud that had stolen her brothers, that now came back like a foraging, hungry monster seeking more sustenance from the St. Clair fields.

She could not tolerate that. She could not bear the thought of her father, so thin, aging so fast, coming west to simply attend her funeral. She longed for hope, for light to again settle into the lines of his face. To see a smile and not that dim look of desperation, defeat. I will fight, she thought. The words gave her strength. God almighty, You have the power of all in Your hands. Give me the strength to fight!

Odessa opened her eyes and then quickly closed them, blinded by the bright, clear sun shining through towering windows all about her. She had a vision of brilliant white and wondered for a moment if she had already landed in heaven. Recognizing that the tip of her nose and cheeks were very cold, and supposing that heaven was bound to be warm, not frosty, she chanced a second glance through squinting eyes.

She was on a covered porch, all painted in white, upon one of ten beds—only two others occupied—and covered in ivory sheets and blankets. A porch, a blessed porch, and off that cursed train! She saw that two windows on either side of the long porch were open, letting a cool draft wander past. But she was laden with heavy woolen blankets that were tucked neatly on either side of her, cocooned against the cold. And she was propped up against several pillows.

Outside, towering pines gave way to the majestic mountains, purple in the light of morning’s glow. One far outweighed all the others in girth and height; it had to be the famous Pikes Peak, the mountain that guided the way for the wagon trains heading west from as far away as Kansas.

They had made it. The St. Clairs had made it to Colorado.

She had survived, lived to awaken in the sanatorium where she might find the cure.

“Awake at last,” said a voice from down the porch.

Odessa turned her head, suddenly aware that she must look frightful. She tried to give an older man, also cocooned from the chest down in his own bed, a small smile. It was an odd situation, this. Being on a porch alone with two men, even at a distance of twenty feet.

“You’ve been here three days. Doubt you remember most of that.”

Odessa nodded and gave him a quick glance, not yet trusting her voice, uncertain of how to behave in such a foreign social situation. He was a small man, with a wild, wiry gray beard and eyebrows that appeared to be taking over his forehead. His eyes, sunken and darkrimmed from the consumption, were still alert, a spark of humor within.

He nodded at her, encouraging her to stay engaged. He seemed clearly bored with his hours of lying about. “Name’s Sam O’Toole,” he said. “I, too, came from Philly, but it’s been …” He paused to cough, a long, hacking process that Odessa tried not to listen to. It made her want to join him. And although she couldn’t take a long, deep breath, it was better than coughing and not stopping. She closed her eyes, tried to concentrate on the fact that she was alive, she hadn’t died on the train; she was in Colorado Springs....

“It’s been twenty years,” Sam continued at last. “I imagine it’s quite different now.” There was a note of sorrow, separation in his tone. He was quiet for a moment and then seemed to remember himself. “Our companion here is my neighbor from down south, Bryce McAllan.”

The other man, his cot set at an angle, was partially hidden by a canvas and easel.

Brown wavy hair. Kind eyes. He gave her a gentle smile and nod in greeting. He dabbed a brush in the paint somewhere that Odessa couldn’t see, laid his head back as if summoning the strength to move, and then lifted an arm to place the color upon the canvas. But then he looked her way again.

Where was the nurse? Her doctor? Her siblings?

“You need not respond to Sam’s idle chatter,” Bryce said. “We know your struggle well.” His smile faded and he returned his attention to the canvas. He dabbed his brush on the unseen palette, settled back among the pillows, took a few breaths, and then lifted his arm again toward the painting.

“We’ve met your brother and sister,” Sam said, then paused to cough again. He leaned his head back, exhausted from the effort, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from speaking. He pulled an age-spotcovered hand from beneath the covers and wiped his upper lip with a handkerchief. So he struggled with the fever, too. “Fine people. And I know your name is Odessa. I assume you know you arrived in Colorado Springs in the nick of time. They’ll be very glad to see you awake.”

Odessa moved a little and smelled the herbal poultice still upon her chest. Peppermint and sage and a deep, mossy scent that reminded her of the shady forest just after snowmelt. “My brother?”

“They’ll return soon, I’m certain. They’ve hardly left your side. Your sister appeared faint herself, so he left to take her back to the hotel. She’s been through an ordeal, between the journey west and their bedside vigil. Quite the beauty she is … almost as pretty as you, miss. If I was a few years younger—” He paused to cough and Odessa dared to glance his way, and further, to Bryce.

She fought the urge to squirm, touch her hair. She knew that he, too, was comparing her to Moira. She concentrated on the view outside instead. No wonder he painted it. Cloaked in springtime snow, the mountains were magnificent.

Bryce cleared his throat. His lungs sounded good, the way hers sounded on her best days. But she had seen the sheen of sweat upon his brow, how he leaned back among the pillows from the mere exertion of painting. She wondered so many things, how long he had been here, how many other patients there were...

Old Sam kept coughing, sitting up now to try to get on top of it. As if reading her agitation, Bryce set down his brush and settled long, strong fingers around a glass bell. It looked desperately dainty and a bit silly in his big hand. She met his eyes, wide and blue, and then noticed his hair was streaked, his face weathered, as if he had spent many summers in the sun. He smiled, and his eyes crinkled again at the corners appealingly.

He was handsome. Terribly thin, but handsome. And only a few years older than she.

Blessedly, the nurse arrived then. “Oh!” she cried in delight. “Miss St. Clair, you’re awake! The doctor will be so pleased. Let me go and fetch you some water—no doubt you are parched—oh, and Sam, you too …” She turned back to Odessa. “I’ll make the doctor aware of your condition.”

“Thank you,” Odessa croaked.

“Not at all,” said the nurse with a bob of her head, and with that she hurried out as quickly as she had arrived.

“Nurse Packard,” Sam managed, still coughing as he grinned Odessa’s way. “A saint in white.”

“Everything is white around here,” Bryce muttered.

A few minutes later, the nurse arrived with a pewter pitcher that was sweating from the blessedly cool contents within, and a tin mug. She poured a cup and set it against Odessa’s lips. “There now, just a few sips. All right, one more. I know you must be terribly thirsty. But we must take it easy. We don’t want it coming right back up now, do we?”

Odessa closed her eyes and pushed back a frown at the woman’s words. She concentrated on the cold liquid she could feel slide all the way down her throat, easing, soothing, calming.

Nurse Packard set the mug on the table beside her, and Odessa noticed that she, too, had a bell beside her bed. “I’ll return with the doctor,” she said, and with another bob of her head, was gone.

“They’ll bring food at some point,” said Bryce. “More food than you’ve ever seen in your life. I’ve gained ten pounds in my two weeks here.”

Odessa said nothing, thinking only of how perilously thin he must have been if he was already ten pounds heavier.

“Are you from the East as well, Mr. McAllan?” she said at last.

“Betrayed by the accent, eh? Bangor. But I’ve been in Colorado for five years running our horse ranch near Sam’s land,” he said easily. “It’s in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristos. Have you heard of the Sangres?”

She shook her head.

“The way they rise off the valley floor, it makes these mountains appear as princes to their kings.”

“They are taller than Pikes Peak?”

“Ten that rival her. Another couple of dozen not far short of reaching her height. But it’s more that there is one after another, marching together as if in some grand parade.”

“It sounds magnificent,” Odessa said.


Odessa heard no response from Bryce. She imagined he was irritated with the doctor’s patronizing manner. But she understood his motivation. If they were to be ensconced in beds, all together as men and women … it was highly unorthodox.

“Is there not a separate porch for women?” she asked gently.

The doctor shook his head with a small smile and reached out a hand for hers. “I am Doctor Morton, Miss St. Clair. Forgive our arrangements, but we have twenty-two patients and only five of them are women. We are nearly at capacity. There is little choice but to intermingle our patients.”

“Only five women? How is that possible?”

He gave her another small smile and a shrug of his narrow shoulders as Nurse Packard brought him a chair on which to sit. “You’re in the West now. We have a preponderance of men, all intent on seeking their fortunes. And here, mining, ranching, farming, all subject them to uncommon levels of dust, weakening their lungs. They are primed for consumption. And others arrive from the East—those from coal mines or printer’s shops. Still more that have lived in the shadows of factory smokestacks. We receive them all.”

He took some papers from the nurse and gazed down at them. “I’ve seen to your welfare since you arrived on the train. We were expecting you, of course, but had hoped you would not arrive in such dire straits.” He looked her in the eye. “It is fortunate you arrived when you did, Miss St. Clair.”

“I am aware of that. Do you … do you believe you can help me? Heal me?”

Doctor Morton smiled more broadly and patted her hand. “We have brought you this far, haven’t we? Back from death’s door? I see no reason why you won’t enjoy a complete recovery and live a long life. But it will probably have to be here, near the sanatorium, in case you experience any setbacks.”

Odessa stared at him for a long moment. “I can—I can never go back? To Philadelphia?”

Doctor Morton’s face sobered. “I would advise against it. I tell all my patients to settle here, make this your home.” His eyes slid over to the men at the end of the porch and back again. He was quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his next words. “Your father did not tell you? I was quite clear about it.”

Odessa barely shook her head, aghast when her eyes began to fill with tears. Papa had sent her off, sent her off knowing he might never see her again, that she might never return to him. How could he? How could he?

Rose House - Chapter 1

Rose House
WaterBrook Press (May 5, 2009)


Chapter 1

It seemed to be a cottage that was alive, but it was only the vines twining in on themselves and clinging to the structure that were living, not unlike the memories and feelings people had attached to the house over time, making it mean more than mere sticks, pieces of wood, nails, and peeling paint could ever imply on their own.

The camera zoomed out to trace the rose brambles wrapping along the awning, curling over the banister and into the flowering borders along one side of the porch.The rest of the house gradually came into view, filling
the scene with an abundance of roses in shades of scarlet draping the windows like curtains, then rambling across the roof, around the chimney and sweeping to the edges of the house, where they seemed to reach
out their thorny branches toward passersby.

The lens didn’t capture the woman’s form at first as it swept away from the house down toward the yard and footpath with its border of snow white Shasta daisies and purple coneflowers. It leisurely zoomed in on a mass of daisies, capturing the breeze that sent an occasional ripple through the border, until the camera was forced to pause at the surprise interruption: a foot that intruded on the otherwise perfect scene.

To the artist behind the lens it was an exquisitely formed foot with a milky white ankle and pink-painted toenails. The lens suddenly tightened its view to capture the sandal decorated with pink and white pearlescent beads and a delicate pink ribbon that wound around the ankle and tied neatly above the heel.

The camera’s focus rose to the hem of a white peasant skirt that billowed softly in the breeze. Traveling upward, the lens skimmed long sleeves of gauzy blue adorned with tiny silver beads that crisscrossed both shoulders, edging along the neckline where beads dangled from the ends of a pink ribbon tie. The camera paused on a silver cross pendant that sparkled with the morning sunrise, glinting off the red jewel nested in the center.Moving up her profile, the lens traced blond tendrils escaping from beaded combs that held back her amber-streaked hair threatening to tumble from a loosely arranged bun. The lens paused, studying the dampness of her flushed cheeks, the unsteady rhythmto which her shoulders rose and fell, how her slight body slumped forward just a little, as if she might throw herself at the mercy of the house.

She straightened, startled,when a succession of clicks broke the silence surrounding the Rose House. Rather abruptly, the lens zoomed out. She was looking directly into the camera. More clicks. Her reddened eyes
grew wide as she turned unexpectedly and ran down the path toward the main house of the Frances-DiCamillo Vineyards.

The camera zoomed in on her departing figure, following her for a moment, capturing in its lens the way her glossy hair slipped fromits bun and cascaded over her shoulders. After a few more clicks, the lens panned
back to the house, zooming in on a flawless, wine-colored blossom. It was a perfect rose, a work of art.

Click.

Lillian dropped her camera into INTOher pocket. She had thought she was alone, but someone else was there, taking pictures of the Rose House—and of her. Ice encircled the nape of her neck as she recalled the words of the investigators.

“You probably shouldn’t be alone until we have this figured out,” they had said. But she’d gone against their advice, not even telling them she was taking a trip alone to La Rosaleda.

Jillian Dare: A Novel - Chapter 1

Jillian Dare: A Novel
Revell (May 1, 2009)

Chapter 1


Life is full of surprises: some kissed by joy, others stabbed by sorrow. My own life had experienced more of the latter in its brief span. I was, therefore, embarking on a new job and a new situation with an ambivalence borne of hopeful anticipation and cautious dread.

The first surprise on my journey was the deer that suddenly leaped out of the woods and across the roadway. I slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting it. I must confess that my fear of auto accidents borders on phobic.

My little Honda Civic lurched and stalled.

“Great,” I muttered as I fiddled with the ignition, and then I looked up. I sucked in my breath and exhaled loudly. “Oh my . . .”

Emerging from the tree-lined boulevard across a vast lawn, Carter Plantation sprawled before me—a gracious three-storied brick Federal mansion with a portico supported by white Doric columns. On either side of the central building spread identical two-storied wings in that perfect balance typical of the Georgian style.

What wasn’t typical was the sheer size of it all. I couldn’t recall ever seeing such a large house before—and I was on my way to work there. I had accepted a job as a nanny to Cadence Remington, a little toddler of thirteen months, an age I felt perfectly competent to manage. But this enormous house was more than I had bargained for. The image of Julie Andrews as Maria in The Sound of Music, cowed by her first glimpse of the von Trapp mansion, flashed into my mind. As I slipped my car into gear, I tentatively and then more boldly sang Maria’s tune, “I have confidence in confidence alone!”

Driving up to the mansion, I recalled my job interview at the Strasbourg Inn just a week earlier when I had met a small elderly woman with soft white wooly hair and bright blue eyes. She looked as huggable as a lamb and smelled faintly of lilacs.

“You must be Jillian,” she had said warmly, extending her hand.

I had grasped it firmly. “Mrs. Remington?” I asked with some confusion.

She laughed lightly—her laughter had a pleasant musical sound like wind chimes. “No, dear. I’m Mrs. Carter. I should have introduced myself. I’m Elise, Ethan Remington’s aunt.”

I hadn’t meant to frown, but I must have looked puzzled because Mrs. Carter added, “Ethan asked me to conduct the interview for him today. His work keeps him very busy. He’s the founder and CEO of his own international company—Remington Telecommunications or RemTel—you’ve heard of it?”

I nodded.

“Much of his business is in the UK, so he travels quite a lot. His father was British, and the Remingtons still own an estate over in England.”

This explained the enticing part of the job description I had read at the agency, calling for a nanny willing to travel to England. That was what had really appealed to me, a young woman who had never been farther away than the beaches of Delaware but who had, nevertheless, procured a passport just in case the opportunity to travel presented itself.

“You see,” she continued to explain, “both of his parents have passed on, so everything has fallen on him. But with his business to run and two estates to manage, he really can’t do it all on his own. It’s just too much. That’s why I’m tasked with the interview.”

“And Mrs. Remington?”

Mrs. Carter shook her head mournfully. “I’m sorry to say Mrs. Remington is no longer with us.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I murmured. How dreadful for Mr. Remington to have lost so many loved ones! “That’s so sad for him and for his daughter.”

“Yes, yes, it is very sad. A terrible business.” She sighed heavily. “It’s a mercy the baby is so young and doesn’t know any better. Poor Ethan has been a single father practically since she was born, which is why we must have a full-time nanny. I’m just getting too old to be chasing a toddler around the house all day.”

Mrs. Carter brightened. “Now if you decide to take the job, your contract states you will have afternoons and three evenings a week off, plus a full weekend every month. I’ll try to give you lots of privacy, and I think you’ll find your rooms quite nice. And you should know that Ethan is very generous to his staff. He’ll pay your social security, health insurance, and your travel expenses. And he’ll put money in an IRA for you too. We’ll have the month trial period, but I do hope you’ll be happy with us and everything works out.”

She paused and went on cautiously, “I thought Caroline, our former nanny, was happy, but then she quit quite suddenly. I’m not sure why, but it left us high and dry.”

“It all sounds perfect to me,” I said. “But, Mrs. Carter, I’m sure you’d like to ask me some questions first.”

“Oh yes, yes, of course. Now let me see . . .” She rummaged around in an enormous black handbag until she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “Here it is!” She laughed as if delighted with a wonderful discovery. “All of Ethan’s questions.”

And with that, Mrs. Carter conducted the interview and promptly hired me for a one-month trial period, which brought me to this moment of singing, “I have confidence in me!” as I pulled up to the portico of the mansion. I breathed a silent prayer, mounted the stairs with all the confidence I could muster, and rang the bell. I endured a very long wait while that confidence began to evaporate.

Suddenly the door swung wide and there stood Mrs. Elise Carter.

“Jillian!” she cried. “Do come in. I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long. We rarely use this door. We all park around back near the kitchen and come in that way.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter. I can move my car.”

“No, no. We can take care of that later. I’ll ask Jack to move it and carry your things to your rooms. Now please come in and make yourself at home.” She stepped back for me to enter and opened her arms in greeting. “Welcome to Carter Plantation, Jillian! We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you so much. I’m very happy to be here.”

“Do you need to freshen up, my dear? There’s a powder room just down the hall. And after that, could I get you something to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”

I gratefully accepted both offers and was astonished that Mrs. Carter bustled about until I was comfortably sipping iced tea on the veranda under the portico roof. I wasn’t certain what to expect on my arrival at Carter Plantation, but I hadn’t expected to be treated as a guest.

Mrs. Carter settled into a wicker chair opposite mine. “There now. I love to sit out here when the weather’s nice. Isn’t this a grand view?”

I agreed that it was. The prospect looked over the gently sloping lawn to the boulevard lined with trees sporting their autumn cloaks of scarlet and orange against a brilliant azure sky. The periwinkle shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains loomed in the distance beyond the rolling hills of Fauquier County in northern Virginia. Although it was October, the bright sun of an Indian summer afternoon spread along the veranda, and I lifted my face gratefully to its warmth.

“I never tire of this view,” Mrs. Carter said cheerfully as she sipped her tea. “I was so blessed to marry into the Carter family. You know, Carter Plantation has been in this family for generations—ever since Robert ‘King’ Carter was granted about half of Virginia from King George II back in the colonial days.”

Now I really was confused. “I thought Mr. Remington . . .”

Mrs. Carter’s laughter chimed. “Oh, the estate does belong to Mr. Remington now, but it’s still in the Carter family. You see, my sister-in-law was Ethan’s mother. His full name is Ethan Carter Remington. Sadly, my dear husband and I were never blessed with children. So when George passed away, he willed the house to Ethan. But since Ethan travels so much, he’s happy to leave me in charge here. And of course, he wants me here to look after Cadence while he’s away.”

“Mrs. Carter,” I asked, “what is Cadence like? Could you please tell me a little more about her?”

“Oh yes! She’s a darling, precious little girl.” Her face lit up. “Very precocious and curious and absolutely delightful. She’s very energetic, though, and I just can’t keep up with her—even with Jack and his wife, Marta, to help. But Cadence is the joy of my life! Really, of everyone’s life, especially Ethan’s. My, how he dotes on her! By the way, Cadence is napping now. So you arrived at just the right time, because I’m quite at leisure to show you around the house.”

Mrs. Carter rose, and I followed her about the mansion, trying to process all the information she poured forth as well as to orient myself so I would not lose my way later. The Carters had fastidiously maintained the integrity and elegance of the original Federal era structure. The more modern additions had every contemporary convenience without compromising the overall architectural harmony.

I could barely contain my delight when shown my own set of rooms. My own rooms! And not just one—but a suite complete with private bath, sitting room, and fully equipped kitchenette. Although I could enter the apartment from the main house, I also had my own separate entrance, which opened on to a patio overlooking the gardens in the back.

“We hope you’ll take most of your meals with the family,” Mrs. Carter was saying as I ran my hand over the shining teakettle in the kitchenette. “But if you prefer not to, especially on your evenings off, we’ve tried to make everything as comfortable as possible for you. Whatever suits you. By the way, Ethan has everything wired so that you have your own cable television and a laptop computer.” She paused for a moment then asked almost anxiously, “So, Jillian, how do you like it?”

How could I explain to this sweet woman, who was so eager to please, that I could be satisfied with very little? Having grown up in a progression of foster homes, I had never had a room of my own—let alone an apartment. I looked around the cheerful, well-appointed au pair suite and exclaimed truthfully, “Oh, Mrs. Carter, I love it!”

“I’m so glad.” She beamed at me with genuine pleasure. “There’s one more thing. Let me show you how the security alarm works.” Leading me over to a control panel, she demonstrated how to check that the system was operating.

I paid close attention. I was accustomed to living out in the country, but in the Shenandoah Valley, even the wealthiest people seldom locked their doors, and I mentioned something to that effect.

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Carter replied. “We didn’t lock our doors either when I lived here all those years with George. But after those teenagers murdered that doctor up in Loudoun County, Ethan insisted on putting in this system. If anyone tampers with the doors or windows, the police are automatically alerted. I suppose since he’s gone so much, he worries about little Cadence.”

She glanced down at her wristwatch. “Now we just have time for you to meet the household staff.”

She led the way to the kitchen and introduced me to Jack and Marta Thornfield, an affable couple in their late fifties or early sixties, who managed the house and grounds and lived across the yard in a renovated cottage beside the garage and stables. Jack stood tall and wiry while Marta was plump and doughy. Jack Spratt and his wife—that’s the mental image I could hang his name on. But Marta would be harder to remember. Mrs. Carter interrupted my thoughts, explaining that a cleaning crew as well as a gardener came in several times a week for the heavier chores.

As we chatted in the kitchen, a handsome black Labrador retriever rose from his bed near the stone fireplace and approached me, wagging his tail with friendly curiosity. He sniffed my shoes and I held out the back of my hand for him to investigate before venturing to pet him.

“This is Ranger, Ethan’s dog,” Mrs. Carter said.

“He’s beautiful,” I murmured as I ran my hand over his thick coat. “I love labs. They’re so good-natured.”

“Seems you meet with his approval too. I’m glad you like dogs. But we should finish our tour. It’s time you met Cadence.”

I followed her back to my wing of the house and the nursery suite next door to mine. She tapped lightly on the closed door and opened it to a playroom painted in bright primary colors. A pretty teenaged girl with straight shoulder-length blond hair slouched on a sofa. She looked up from her reading as we entered.

“Hello, Corinne,” Mrs. Carter cheerfully greeted the girl. “Meet our new nanny, Jillian Dare. Jillian, this is our babysitter, Corinne Cooke. She comes over every weekday afternoon during the baby’s naptime and keeps an eye on her until supper. That will give you a few hours every day to yourself.”

“Hi, Corinne,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

Corinne eyed me. Did I note a look of disdain or was it just bored indifference? I guessed she wouldn’t be very impressed with my lack of stylishness. Although I was only a few years her senior, I had tamed my curly waist-length light brown hair by braiding it and twisting it into a neat bun. I had also carefully chosen my outfit to reflect a serious, mature professional. I wore a long gray jersey skirt and a modest royal blue sweater set, which would enhance the blue of my eyes. I’m never sure how to fill in the blank on forms requesting the color of my eyes. They are an indeterminate and constantly shifting color—gray, green, or blue. Like the color of the sea that reflects the sky, my eyes reflect what I’m wearing.

The babysitter grunted a return greeting and gathered up her schoolbooks, which had been scattered over the couch. “Should I wake up Cadence now?” she asked.

Mrs. Carter checked her watch. “Yes, dear. Why don’t you? If she naps too late, we’ll never get her to sleep tonight. Plus I’d like for Jillian to meet her.”

While Corinne went into the adjoining room to wake the child, Mrs. Carter pointed out the amenities of the nursery suite. The layout was identical to mine with a kitchenette, but entirely childproofed and looking much like a well-equipped preschool. The playroom contained a child-sized table and chairs, a flat-screen television with a DVD player, and organized bins and shelves full of toys, puzzles, books, and craft supplies. Evidently a tremendous amount of thought and care had gone into designing this nursery suite.

Mrs. Carter mentioned that Mr. Remington’s rooms connected to Cadence’s bedroom, just as mine connected to the nursery sitting room.

“He likes to be able to check on her easily when he’s home, but unfortunately he does travel a lot. You have a monitor in your apartment so that you can hear her if she should wake in the middle of the night, and we also have monitors throughout the house. Ah, here is our little darling!” she exclaimed as Corinne carried the toddler into the playroom.

And Cadence was a little darling—huge blue eyes, dark curly hair, and pudgy cheeks. At first she shyly hid her face in Corinne’s shoulder, but when she was put down it only took a few minutes for her to warm up to me and to begin to bring me toy “gifts,” plopping them in my lap.

She won my heart in no time, and I hoped that I would quickly win hers. The expense and consideration that had gone into her care made me wonder even more about her father and when I would be introduced to him. My curiosity about the owner of Carter Plantation would not be satisfied for another two weeks—and even after I met him, Mr. Remington remained a mystery to me for quite some time.

I actually first made his acquaintance in cyberspace. After dinner and Cadence’s bedtime, I began to put away my few belongings and acclimate myself to my new rooms. Beside the computer, I discovered a set of instructions for activating my “nanny” email account. When I logged in, I was surprised to find two messages in the inbox. The first was from Ethan
.Remington@RemTel.org, my boss and Cadence’s father.

Dear Miss Dare:

Welcome to Carter Plantation. I am pleased you have decided to take care of my daughter and trust we will work well together providing for her needs. I hope you have found everything to your satisfaction. Please let me know if there is anything lacking in your accommodation or provision. I plan to return to Virginia in a fortnight’s time. In the meantime, feel free to contact me via email with any questions or concerns you may have. In case of emergency, you may call my mobile phone. My aunt has the number.

Best regards,

Ethan Remington
Although his email was appropriately businesslike in tone, I felt pleased that my new boss had been thoughtful enough not only to provide me with a computer and email account but also to be solicitous of my needs.

The second message also had the RemTel domain address. The sender’s name appeared simply as CC. The subject line read “Nanny.” Surprised, I decided I should open it. The three words all in capital letters on the otherwise blank page made my stomach flip.

WATCH YOUR BACK!

Instinctively, I whipped my head around. Of course, nobody was there. How silly of me. But who would write such a thing? And how did they have my address?

I rapidly hit the delete button and shut down the computer. Rising quickly, I slipped through the connecting door and crossed the nursery sitting room to check on Cadence. She was sleeping soundly, and the baby monitor seemed to be working properly. I locked her hallway door from the inside, and when I returned to my suite, I locked mine as well. Next, I tried the door to the outside patio to make sure it too was securely locked. After checking that the security alarm was working, I peered under the bed and in the closets and opened the shower curtain.

While I dressed for bed, I puzzled over the mystery message. Who could CC be? So far I’ve met only Marta, Jack, and of course, Mrs. Carter. Could Elise Carter possibly be CC? She hardly seems the type to send threatening emails. But was it a threat or a warning? She mentioned that in the next county some teenagers had killed a doctor. The thought of teenagers brought the babysitter Corinne to mind. What’s her last name? Cooke. Corinne Cooke. Could she be CC? And what about the former nanny—Caroline? Then again, there must be hundreds of employees who work for RemTel and have access to their email account. But why would anyone send me such a message?

My mind whirled and I tried to reason myself out of my fears. Placing a flashlight and the phone within reach on my bed table, I left on a nightlight and lay on my back with the covers pulled up to my chin until I finally fell asleep

Ulterior Motives by Mark Andrew Olsen

Ulterior Motive
Bethany House (March 1, 2009)
by
Mark Andrew Olsen

Chapter 1

The boy's outline danced across the razor-thin crosshairs of a spotting scope. Trying to follow its exuberant path caused the hidden watcher to grit his teeth in frustration. Even the finest military-grade optics could not keep his lens focused on the youngster's manic figure. The child would not quit leaping out of view, veering away, seized by peals of laughter.

The excitement was understandable. It was, after all, Robby Cahill's sixth birthday party.

At last, the boy paused to catch his breath. Just as quickly the intruder took advantage of the interval to reacquire the young body in his sights and bore in on his tousled head. He lingered over those eyes, glowing green in the sunlight. Cheeks ruddy as an apple. Sandy hair swaying in a leaf-scented breeze.

Good, he thought. Almost within range.

The intruder's stealth grew more pronounced with every passing second. The closer he crawled beneath layers of concealing leaves and shrubbery, the more he worried about early detection—an inadvertent reflection from the scope, a stray glint of light which could instantly give him away.

The man wouldn't let that happen. He was too good for that. Too experienced.

And today the stakes were too high.

*

Neither Robby nor his mother, Donna, could see the man, but they each suspected, in their own silent ways, that he might be near. Only brief, sidelong glances betrayed their suspicions. And yet they had no idea he'd already made it so close to their location, inching toward them through the underbrush.

The very potential of his presence had brought the police cruiser there, idling beside the curb in the shade of Armstrong Park's vast hundred-year-old magnolia tree. It was the reason for the drawn, tight mouth of the boy's mother. And for the unusually terse nature of her comments to the other boys' mothers. Donna Cahill was taking no chances.

*

At that moment, the intruder was in fact less than one hundred twenty yards away from the birthday party, slithering through a cluster of pungent rosemary bushes under an improvised mat of native twigs and leaves. He wore camouflage perfectly suited to the ground cover, selected on several reconnoitering trips the week before. His face and lips were covered in carefully applied swirls of camo paint. Even his army boots were smeared with dark polish to prevent any shine and to blend into the terrain.

The man was so well concealed that the boy might have stepped on his back without ever seeing him, without even a second's awareness that anyone was underfoot.

The factors capable of betraying his presence ticked through his mind in a cascade of crucial data. Time, brightness, temperature, wind, sun position—each contributed to the play of light upon him. He had chosen the shadow of these bushes for the angle and blending of illumination they would provide at this time of day. His mind continually monitored the exact position of both key persons—Robby and Donna—to make sure he did not move while they were facing his way. Fortunately, there were no dogs about; one of the worst threats to a well-hidden asset. He had nothing left but unobstructed brush to traverse before reaching the perfect position.

He kept the mother firmly planted in his peripheral vision. She ranked first on his list of vigilant, even paranoid, observers of whom to beware. He knew she would be looking for him. He also knew that she remembered what kinds of areas to watch. Indeed, the woman knew more than most folks did about sniper stealth tactics. Fortunately for him, she had been eyeballing the trees all morning rather than the ground, distracted by her knowledge that most people rarely looked upward, and that as a result leafy canopies made the ideal approach route.

Luckily for him, she now seemed engrossed in chatting with the other mothers over by the picnic tables. Better still, her glances around the park had grown more and more sporadic. He reckoned that she might be, at last, entertaining the prospect that he might not be here after all. And yet, he could tell, she was also wrestling with a vague, emerging awareness of his presence.

He wriggled one more foot closer. The boy would be in range soon. He reached into a side pocket and extricated the tool he had chosen for the mission.

*

"Donna, you seem tense," said the mother of Robby's best friend. "Is everything okay?"

"Nothing unusual," replied the party's hostess with a quick world-weary grin. "Just a little tired."

"I was wondering about the police car," the mother persisted. "Are you sure there isn't anything we should be worrying about?"

"No!" she responded, a bit too emphatically. "There's nothing for you to worry about. It's, uh, just a new regulation . . . something about private parties on city property. Gotta pay for police protection."

"I didn't know that," said her friend. "It's just that you seem on edge today."

Donna Cahill looked down at the ungarnished hot-dog bun in her hands and sighed. "Nothing new. You know how parties are. No matter how well you think you've prepared, there's always something that goes wrong at the last minute."

"Don't I know it," the woman laughed.

Donna shook her head. "Good thing the kids are clueless about what we go through," she said, "or no one would have any fun at all."

Twenty yards away, little Robby Cahill was also looking around for signs. He had seen none, but then he'd been playing hard with his friends. Star Wars Jedi combat, laser tag, and even Transformers, stomping around the yard and growling as pretend robots.

But his gaze kept drifting back to the sidelines, scanning for a glimpse.

Suddenly the event he'd waited all morning for happened. His eyelashes flickered against a blinding assault, and he winced. A small flare of light glittered in his retinas, washing out his world. Robby knew right away what it was, and that it was too strong and steady to be an accidental reflection from a passing car. Robby shielded his eyes with an uplifted hand.

Then he jumped high in the air and squealed.

He started running toward the light. He giggled loudly, pumping his arms and stocky legs like a superhero.

Donna screamed and lunged for the boy. Her fingers grazed his waist but failed to capture him.

"Stop him!" she shouted in the direction of the police car. "It's him! It's him!"

The police car's engine switched off. The door flew open, and a young officer jumped out and sprinted across the grass, fingers fumbling with his gun holster.

Seventy yards away, the ground erupted in a flurry of upward motion. The bushes flung debris up and around a figure that rose from their midst. Leaves and branches flew about the standing man, who was clad in shades of green.

Running to catch up, Donna fell to her knees, transfixed at the bizarre sight. Her breathing stopped and her heart seemed to flutter to a halt in her chest. For a moment, the sight struck her as an apparition disgorged by the earth itself, like some gnarled creature of soil and root.

The man stood and extended his arms, hands empty to the sky.

Robby Cahill kept on running, his face contorted with emotion. His mouth opened and a shout ripped forth from his heaving lungs.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Beloved Counterfeit - Chapter 1

Beloved Counterfeit
Barbour Publishing, Inc (May 2009)
by
Kathleen Y'Barbo

Chapter 1

July 1819

O’Connor Plantation, Jamaica

“You were supposed to be watching.”

“I have been. Not a ship’s approached.” Claire O’Connor turned at the sound of her sister’s voice and held up the most special shell in her basket of prizes. “I found some sand dollars. Come and look. This one’s the biggest yet.”

“No, I don’t want to see them.” Opal hurdled over the small dune and bounded toward Claire. “You weren’t watching, either. He’s back.”

Looking toward the horizon, Claire spied nothing but low-hanging clouds and a sun hot enough to shrivel all that it touched. With no slaver in sight, the only reason for the announcement was obvious. “Papa?”

“Yes, Papa. Who else?”

“He couldn’t be.” Claire set her basket down carefully, making sure not to spill the shells she’d spent the morning collecting. “If Mama had expected Papa to return, she’d certainly have sent away her gentleman friend.”

That’s what Mama made her and Opal call them, but none of the fellows who climbed the stairs of the big house while Papa was away ever looked like gentlemen to Claire. And they certainly weren’t friendly.

Most of them weren’t, anyway.

“Now, come on over here and help me look,” Claire said. “I don’t think I’ve seen this many sand dollars on the beach since the big storm blew over last fall.”

No explanation of their destination was required as nine-year-old Opal raced across the sand to catch Claire’s wrist and give it a jerk. “I think Papa killed this one.”

“Don’t be silly,” Claire said, even as her heart thudded against her ribs.

Though Claire was almost a full year older, her sister’s legs were already longer so keeping up took some effort. By the time she reached their secret hiding place beneath the front steps, Opal had already lifted the loose board and shinnied inside.

The hurricane that was their father’s voice rose and fell like heat waves and blew past toward the dry expanse of land that tumbled downhill toward the beach. By contrast, their mother’s bird-like responses chirped across the storm with all the effect of a whisper in a gale. Words like slave and bankrupt and oaths against the monarchy and Parliament bounced past, all just a part of what they’d heard from Papa since the news that the slavers would be arrested should they dare bring their cargo into Caribbean waters.

Thus far, nothing had been said about what went on while Papa was at sea. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as Opal claimed.

Claire pressed her finger over her lips to hush her sister, then crept toward the parlor window. She might have risen up to look inside had something not whizzed past her head and landed in the yard, sending Claire racing back to the steps. A glance over her shoulder told her the object was the sparkling necklace Mama had put on for the first time this morning.

“Hurry up,” Opal called in an urgent whisper. “You can’t let him see you.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she blustered even as her trembling fingers refused to take instruction. Claire let out a long breath. “He can’t get you here. He can’t get either of us.”

Finally, the board slipped back into place, and Opal hauled Claire back. They cowered against the rocky foundation in a spot the pair had claimed as their own so long ago neither remembered who found it first.

“’Sides, he’s mad at King George again, not Mama,” Claire added. A reminder to herself and her sister that, no matter who took the blame, someone or something other than them generally started the ruckus.

“Tommy says the slaves are gonna kill us in our sleep,” Opal whispered. “He said he hears things when he’s on the ship with his papa.” She paused. “Evil things.”

“I told you to stay away from that boy,” Claire hissed.

“He’s nice, Claire, and I’ll not hear another word about him.”

“You will so.” Claire held her tongue a moment. “’Cause if I find out you’ve been talking to him, I’ll tell Mama.” Another pause to appreciate Opal’s gasp. “No,” she said slowly, “I’ll tell Papa.”

Opal put on her stubborn look and let loose of Claire’s arm. She’d hit on a sore subject, sure enough, but she’d not be the one to make things right again. As the older sister, it fell to Claire to keep Opal from things that would hurt her.

And keeping company with a boy whose papa supplied half the Caribbean with slaves could lead to nothing but trouble. The fact he was some years older and had already begun to sprout whiskers didn’t seem to matter to Opal, but to Claire it meant soon he’d be just like Papa and the others who called themselves grown men.

Claire rubbed the spot on her leg that still plagued her when she stepped on it wrong. Every bruise she got was another reminder of what grown men were capable of.

“Tommy said his papa would take us far away from here.”

For just a moment, the idea tempted. Far Away. It was a place where her dreams took her, though she never expected her feet would ever land on the spot.

“I don’t like him, Opal,” Claire whispered. “Bad things happen on his papa’s ship, so we can never sail upon it. And he calls me Ruby Red, though he knows I hate that.”

Heavy footsteps thundered overhead, signaling the brawl had moved from a respectable inside spat to a potentially public one. Claire’s heart sunk. Those were always the worst, and it was either Opal or she and not Mama who would likely bear the scars of the day’s battle.

“Don’t leave me, Claire,” Opal whispered as she scooted closer.

“Never, ever,” Claire said.

“Vow it,” her sister said so softly Claire almost missed the words.

Claire held up her pinky and Opal did the same. Linking trembling fingers took some work, but they managed. “I vow it,” they whispered in unison even as their father’s shouts nearly covered up the statements.

A determination welled up in Claire as Papa’s footsteps faded. Despite the fact their combined age didn’t add up to twenty, she’d leave this place soon enough and take Opal with her. And as the big sister, she’d surely see that nothing happened to Opal ever again.

Right then and there she promised it—swore it before the Lord who the Methodists down in Port Royal called on every Sunday—even as the footsteps turned and headed back their direction.

***

November 1828

Galveston, Texas

Nine years later, and Claire could still remember the day Papa hauled her and Opal from under the stairs. Likely she always would, for every time she lifted her dress, the scars reminded her. Most times, however, the gentlemen didn’t notice. She, in turn, tried not to notice they weren’t gentlemen at all.

It was an agreement between them, this mutual ignorance of plain fact. A bargain struck in coin and flesh that promised should they pass on the street neither would acknowledge the other.

Yet here in this rented room with the window shut against the sea breeze and the curtains closed to the prying eyes of anyone who might be strolling by, names were whispered and secrets shared. Sometimes she played the old piano jammed against the far wall, but most times it remained silent once the lamps were turned low.

Much as she hated what transpired here, Claire nonetheless entertained banker and businessman, politician and policeman, and others whose names and employment she never knew. During the day, the same rented room hosted children whose mamas insisted they learn to sing a fine tune or play the piano.

To these children, she was Miss Claire. To their mothers, she was Miss O’Connor. More than one of their fathers, however, called her endearments that would scorch the ears of any who listened.

All of it, she endured rather than experienced. It was how she managed. Perhaps it always had been.

Claire sighed even as she waited for the door to close and the heavy footsteps to fade into silence. When the clock struck the hour, another would arrive, so she hurried to set herself and the room to rights.

It bore hard on her that she’d found no other way to supplement the pittance she made teaching, but time would be kind to them, of this she was sure. She just had to get through the next hour. Then the next day and week, and eventually time would pass—and so would their situation.

In the meantime, Opal and all the respectable wives and daughters of Galveston would know Claire O’Connor as a woman who taught piano lessons in a rented room above the Cotton Exchange and kept to herself in the little row house three blocks from the ocean.

Sitting at the piano to play helped Claire pass the time and gave anyone within hearing distance the idea she had another lesson. She played louder, faster, and with more abandon than she’d played in ages.

Tonight, she felt different. As if something were about to happen. Something big. Something that would change things.

Then came the familiar knock, and she knew nothing had changed at all.

Later, she shut her door against the fellows who might show without warning and donned her winter coat. Though November’s chill touched Galveston with a gentle brush, it nonetheless painted the streets with ice on this rare occasion.

Of late, Opal had taken to spending her evenings away, so Claire smiled when she saw the lamps burned bright in the front parlor. At eighteen, her sister could hardly be called a girl anymore, but to Claire, she would always be more child than woman. Too young, indeed, for the potential suitors who gathered on the porch or called to her from the street.

The price of finding refuge on a slaver all those years ago had been the knowledge that Tommy had known what became of them. Two girls left on the Galveston docks might have found nothing but a bad end, but Tommy’s papa saw to placing them in a home with an elderly relative of his who was in need of cooking and cleaning.

Claire had hoped both father and son would forget them, but Tommy never did. To her great chagrin and Opal’s delight, the slaver’s son had arrived unannounced some months ago. Thankfully, his visit had been brief and not repeated, for the years had not been kind to the man.

Oh, his looks were unaffected, for he was quite a handsome fellow. But something else about Tommy Hawkins, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, bothered Claire. Maybe it was the way he watched her, or it might have been the easy and familiar way he treated them.

Whatever it was, the man’s presence set her on edge.

“I’m late,” she said as she pressed open the door. “I hope you’ve not waited dinner on me.”

She stepped inside and found the parlor empty. A fire burned low in the hearth though the lamps still glowed bright. “Opal?” Claire called, even as she shed her coat. “Are you here?”

The kitchen echoed as she passed through, noting the cold pots on the stove. Claire doubled back to the eastern-facing bedroom where she found Opal’s bed still neatly made.

Moonlight slid across the wide boards and bade Claire enter. She did and found the note.

Opal was gone. Run off with the slaver’s son.

Thoughts scattered, then found their focus as Claire stalked through the house to the kitchen, then back to the bedchamber. She threw what little mattered to her in a bag, along with the note.

She would catch up to Opal and put a stop to this foolishness. Surely her sister didn’t intend to break the vow they’d made all those years ago under the steps.

“That’s it,” Claire whispered. “That Hawkins fellow’s got her brain addled. We’ll just see how sweet his words are when I find them.”

Closing the door to the little cottage, Claire walked out into the evening’s chill without bothering to extinguish the lamp or bank the fire. Surely Opal hadn’t gone far. Indeed, they’d both be back in time for a warm meal and a long chat about the bonds of family and the importance of keeping a vow once made.

But Opal didn’t come back. When Claire reached the docks, she found a familiar vessel about to weigh anchor. On the deck stood her sister.

“You’ve come,” Opal called. “I hoped but didn’t dare ask.”

Claire glanced behind her at the bustling port city she’d come to call home. How many years ago had she stood on this same platform and stared back at a Hawkins vessel in the hopes she’d found a new life?

It seemed like yesterday, yet she and Opal had lived a lifetime since them.

“That you, Ruby Red?”

Claire suppressed a groan. He hadn’t called her that since their childhood days.

Tommy tossed a rope to a crewman and came to stand by Opal. “Isn’t that something? I didn’t expect I’d get two lovely ladies for the price of one.”

Ladies. Price.

Claire sighed. An unfortunate choice of words, though she knew he likely did not make the same reference as she.

“You know what your problem is?” Tommy released Opal to lean over the rail. “You’re far too serious.”

“Am I now?” This from a man who hadn’t said two words to her in six months.

“Yes,” he said as he offered a courtly bow. “What if I promised to help you bury the serious Claire O’Connor at sea? Next time your feet touch dry land, you’ll be Ruby Red, sailor of the seven seas.”

His laughter was contagious, though she’d not let him know. “I never liked it when you called me Ruby Red,” she called back.

Tommy pretended to think. “How do you feel about plain old Ruby? Not that you are either,” he said.

“Look here, Tommy.” Opal came to the rail and gave Tommy a playful nudge. “She’s my sister, but I’m your wife, so you’d better be careful.”

“Your wife?” Claire swallowed hard. “Since when?”

“I married her weeks ago,” Tommy said, “but she was afraid to tell you.”

Opal looked apologetic. “I know you wanted big things for me, Claire, but I love him. We’d planned a fancy ceremony. You would have liked doing that for me, I know.” She linked arms with Tommy. “We didn’t count on being blessed with a little one so quickly.”

By degrees, the picture became clear.

“Come aboard,” Opal called. “I’ll play, and you can keep watch. When the baby comes, you can be her auntie Claire.”

“He,” Tommy corrected.

“Or perhaps one of each.” Her giggle sounded almost like the Opal of her youth. “Claire, please. We’ll have this adventure together.”

Together. In a moment, Claire made her decision; for a lifetime, she would regret it.

Deceptive Promises - Chapter 1

Deceptive Promises
Barbour Publishing, Inc (2008)
by
Amber Miller


Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Strattford House; near New Castle, northernmost of Pennsylvania’s 3 lower counties
Christina and Brandywine River Valley, late August 1774

Margret Scott started to hoist her petticoats, but decorum made her pause. She stood at the tree canopy marking the entrance to her family’s farm. Paying heed to the presence of the servants and field workers, she started at a brisk walk down the lane toward the main house. As it came into view, her speed increased. A moment later, mindful of her appearance, she resumed walking. Alternating between almost running and maintaining a lady-like pace, she finally reached the front porch. This was the most exciting news she’d heard in all of her fourteen years.

“Mama!”

She burst through the front door, cringing when it slammed against the block of wood in the corner of the entryway. Mama would scold her for that one.

“Margret Scott!” Mama’s voice preceded her appearance from the kitchen into the main hallway. Elanna Hanssen Scott was a kind and generous woman, but she did not tolerate ill manners.

“Sorry, Mama.” Margret tucked her chin against her chest. She fought hard to catch her breath as she peered at Mama from under lowered lashes and offered an apologetic smile.

A grin tugged at Mama’s lips. “Child, what am I to do with you? You do try one’s patience.” Mama sighed. “Now, what is so important that you could not enter our house in a more subdued manner?”

Margret inhaled a sharp breath. “Oh, Mama! You will never believe it. You know that Papa and I were visiting at the Hanssen farm.” At Mama’s nod, Margret continued. “And I am quite excited!”

Mama wiped her hands on her apron and quirked one eyebrow. “And are you going to tell me or shall I have to wait until the news arrives from town?”

“There is a special meeting about delegates being sent from New Castle to Philadelphia. Grandfather spoke of a private meeting with the Assembly that is being held in secret.” Margret flung out her arms and spun in a circle then clasped her hands together just below her chin. “The mere idea is simply breathtaking!” She didn’t wait for a response. “They mentioned something about a congress and how every colony except Georgia is sending representatives. I do not know much more, but delegates from our very own Assembly have been invited. Oh, how I wish Papa or Uncle Edric was going. They could write to us of everything they see. Just imagine! Philadelphia. It is such a big city. They no doubt have the latest fashions and goods. What happens there is quite important. And men from right here in New Castle will be there with other delegates.”

“Margret, dear, will you take a moment to breathe? I fear you might expire from the long-winded account you have just given.”

Margret paused and stared. Had she really just rambled without pausing for air? It was a wonder she didn’t swoon. She started to calm, but the amusement on Mama’s face made Margret excited again. A grin graced her lips. “And I have yet to tell you the best part.”

“Pray, do tell me soon, my daughter, before you burst the linen in your stays.”

Margret grabbed hold of Mama’s flour-covered hands and squeezed. “Grandfather has persuaded Papa to allow me to accompany them into town, provided you come as well. Papa said a ship recently arrived in port, teaming with crates and barrels of all shapes and sizes. Can you imagine it? There will be so many people about, and the shops will no doubt be open to everyone. We can see the latest fashions and styles and perhaps even purchase a new bonnet.”

“A recent shipment of goods, you say?” Mama withdrew one hand from Margret’s clasp and reached up to touch her hair. “I suppose I should make myself a bit more presentable for a town visit to purchase a few necessities.” A twinkle entered her eye as she looked down at Margret. “We cannot have the family of Assembly members appearing less than fashionable, now can we?”

“Oh, Mama, you can be quite silly sometimes.”

“No more so than you, my dear.” Mama traced her finger down Margret’s face and tapped her on the nose. “Now, off with you. I am certain the men will not be far behind, so you should not tarry any longer with me.”

Margret threw her arms around Mama, then stepped back and pressed her hands down the front of her petticoats to smooth out the wrinkles. She winked, assumed a proper stance and tamed her expression into one of polite indifference. “I promise to present myself in the most genteel of manners. My decorum will be impeccable.”

Mama chuckled. “At least until you once again get caught up in the excitement of the moment.”

Although she tried hard, Margret couldn’t tame her expression. The smile pulling at her mouth finally won out, and she turned toward the stairs. Mama shook her head and disappeared again in the direction of the kitchen.

* * * * *

“Nicholas, come help your grandfather, please.”

Papa’s voice sounded from the other side of the carriage where he extended a hand to Mama. A moment later, Margret’s younger brother, Nicholas, skidded around the side and assisted Papa in helping Grandfather Gustaf onto his seat. Grandmother Raelene said she wanted to stay home and work on her quilt, but Margret knew wagon rides weren’t exactly comfortable for her. It wasn’t easy seeing either of her grandparents struggle, but despite their age, they both still had a firm command of the running of the farm. And they stayed abreast of the political developments as well. Margret didn’t have as much interest as her parents and grandparents, but she tried to pay attention to what was important. The results of the Congress gathering in Philadelphia were sure to become the center of conversation for some time. Speculation had been high in recent months. Margret knew something would happen soon. She only prayed they’d be ready when it did.

“Will you be joining us, young one, or do you intend to stand and stare as the carriage leaves you behind?”

Margret started at Grandfather’s voice and looked up to see him smiling down at her. His expression showed he had guessed her thoughts, but it reassured her at the same time. Leave it to Grandfather to put on a strong face for everyone. Accepting Papa’s outstretched hand, Margret climbed into the carriage and took her seat. Grandfather placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Margret snuggled against him, determined to enjoy the peaceful ride into town.

Before she knew it, they approached the outskirts of New Castle. The activity level increased tenfold. Wagons rumbled along the cobblestone, and horse hooves clopped as they pulled carriages or held lone riders. As Papa drove the carriage into the center of town, the raucous voices of the townspeople joined the symphony of sounds that represented town life.

Margret soaked up the palpable joy and enthusiasm shared by her fellow colonists at the latest arrival of goods. But another level of anticipation existed. Papa surreptitiously pointed out several gentlemen whose names Margret recognized from various conversations. Lace handkerchiefs held by the gloved hands of ladies waved in the air. Men raised their tri-corner hats high while others merely tipped them in acknowledgement of the honor bestowed upon the esteemed men. Their driver stopped the carriage to allow the throngs of people to part and allow them room to pass.
Nicholas leaned forward and tapped Margret’s knee as he jerked his head to the side.

“That is the mayor of Wilmington, John McKinley.”

Margret turned to see a well-dressed gentlemen approach the print shop a block ahead of them. He certainly looked like a man of some importance. And the way several townsfolk stepped aside to let him pass showed they felt the same way.

“Papa and Grandfather Gustaf invited him for supper one evening a few months back.” Nicholas’ voice interrupted her thoughts. “He is quite influential. I remember Papa talking about his service during the war with the French a few years ago. They were both Majors, even though Papa served with a British regiment while Mayor McKinley commanded the New Castle militia.” He looked at Papa—whose face reflected admiration that his son knew so much—then continued with pride. “Standing next to him are the three lawyers being sent as delegates, Thomas McKean, George Read and Caesar Rodney.”

Margret straightened in her seat and squinted as she peered at the three men. “Mama, is not Mr. McKean the man who assisted you when that journalist tried to deceive you?”

That was one of Margret’s favorite stories she’d asked Mama to tell her over and over again.

“Yes,” Mama replied with a smile at Papa.

Margaret’s breath caught in her throat. Had it not been for Mr. McKean, Mama might have married the journalist and not Papa. “I wish I could have been there to see it.” She placed one hand on her heart. “Can you imagine having a man come to your home to call only to have his devious plans revealed by a notable statesman and the Deputy Attorney General?”

Papa took Mama’s hand in his and bestowed a loving smile upon his wife as the wagon moved forward again. “I owe my life to Mr. McKean. But had he not succeeded, I would have found another way to secure your mother’s affection.”

Looking back and forth between her parents, Margret prayed that one day she would be as fortunate as they in her future marriage.

“Papa, why has this meeting been called in secret?”

Nicholas’ question drew everyone’s attention back to the matter at hand.

“We have grown weary of the legislature across the ocean dictating to us how and when we are able to export and import our goods.” Papa cleared his throat then lowered his voice as two British soldiers crossed the street from the sidewalk near them. “We have protested the taxes that Britain attempted to levy upon us for stamps to mail our letters, tea to serve in our homes and sugar to sweeten our meals. And we will continue to protest until they realize we deserve the right to make those decisions for ourselves.”
Grandfather Gustaf continued. “But despite everything, they have not listened. Instead, their presence has increased, and their attempts to control us have almost become unbearable.”

Papa nodded. “That is the reason for the Continental Congress meeting in Philadelphia. But our meeting is to give a proper send-off to the three delegates and discuss the topics that may be part of the gathering up north.”

Nicholas leaned forward. “And the reason for the secret meeting is to prevent any British from knowing what is happening?”

“Yes, this is why we must do all that we can to gather unnoticed.” Papa signaled the driver to halt the carriage. He turned to Mama and touched her cheek. “This is where we part, my dear. We shall leave you and Margret to the tasks you have come to accomplish, and meet you again two hours hence in front of the town hall.”

Mama gathered a burlap satchel in her hands and three hand-woven baskets as she shifted toward the carriage door. The driver opened it and extended a hand first to Mama, then to Margret. When they were both standing on the cobblestone street, Mama looked up at Papa. “We shall be waiting by the steps when your meeting concludes.”

The driver closed the door and resumed his seat. As he snapped the reins and set the carriage in motion once more, Margret watched Papa, Grandfather Gustaf and Nicholas continue around the back side of the buildings to the rear of the print shop. She prayed the meeting would go well.

“Margret, dear,” Mama said as she touched Margret’s shoulder, “Let us not tarry long. We have many things to do and only a small amount of time in which to do them.”
She would never have been allowed to come to town without Mama, but Margret wanted to walk around the center of town, see the shops, and look in the windows. If she stayed with Mama the entire time, she might not have that chance.
“Mama?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Would it not help us more if we each took a few items on our own?”

Mama tilted her head and regarded Margret with a curious glance. She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to determine whether Margret had an ulterior motive. A moment later, her lips twitched. “You wish to have additional time so that you might see the new items which have arrived on the shipment. Am I correct?”

Margret started to protest, but Mama didn’t look upset. Only amused. So, Margret grinned and extended her hands in a helpless gesture. “It is why I pleaded with Papa to allow me to come.”

Mama tapped Margret on the nose. “Very well. You will need to go to the candle shop, the basket weaver’s and the apothecary’s.” She held out the three baskets and Margret took them. “I will be at the silversmith’s when you finish. Please come find me there.”

“Yes, Mama.” Margret dipped into a quick curtsey then skipped off in the direction of the basket weaver’s. If she saw to her tasks first, she would have more than enough time to visit the other shops.

A little over an hour later, she closed the door behind her after leaving the apothecary’s shop and walked down the five steps to the sidewalk. Margret shielded her eyes and glanced up at the sky. By the sun’s position, she guessed she had about forty minutes before the meeting at the print shop ended. She was about five blocks from the silversmith’s. When she reached an alleyway, she stopped. The other end came out near the north end of the town square. And that would take her right past the main street of shops. Perfect.

Margret walked about a quarter of the way down the alley, but stopped when saw two men standing close to one another, speaking in hushed tones. She couldn’t make out much of a description, but she could make out the red coat of a British soldier. It was obvious by the way one of them kept glancing over his shoulder that neither one of them wanted to get caught. As quietly as possible, she took several steps backward, praying she could escape undetected. She had almost made it when her foot kicked a tin can lying on the ground.

She froze.

The two men stopped and looked in her direction.

Time seemed to stand still as she stared at the men, and they stared back. They looked at each other then again at her. She didn’t know what they were thinking, but if their choice for a meeting place was any indication, the fact that she saw them couldn’t be a good thing.

“I…I…” Margret swallowed against the lump in her throat, trying hard to slow the pounding of her heart. “Do excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt.” She took a shallow breath. “I shall just be on my way.”

One of the men said something to the other, and the second man left in the opposite direction. The one who spoke took a few steps toward her. Margret didn’t know whether to continue walking backward or turn and run. Either way, the man was sure to catch her. At least if she turned around, she had a better chance of avoiding him.
But as soon as she stepped out of the alley and into the street, she bumped into a man who was with a group of British soldiers. The sack in her hands fell to the ground, and a cloud of dust puffed out from underneath.

“Well, well, what have we here?” One of the men reached out and tipped up her face with his thumb and forefinger under her chin.

Margret attempted to regain her wits. Going from one frightening circumstance to another wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

“And what would cause a delicate young lady such as yourself to be sneaking about in the alleyways of this town?” the same man asked.

“Perhaps she is returning from a meeting with a secret beau and she does not wish her mother or father to learn of her whereabouts,” another soldier suggested.

“Or she might be going to meet a beau with the same thought in mind.” A third soldier snickered, but Margret couldn’t see him.

The first still lightly held her chin with his fingers. She dared not move. Fear at what they might do helped her feet stay rooted to the ground. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man exit the alleyway. She caught a flash of his red coat and her heart beat double-time.

Could her situation get any worse?

The soldier in front of her turned, and a smirk formed on his lips. “It appears we were both right.” He looked at his two compatriots then back toward the alley. “Only it seems as if our little lady was meeting her beau in the alley.”

Margret felt, rather than saw, the other man approach. As she watched the soldier in front of her, his expression changed from one of smugness to one of concern. In a flash, the soldier dropped his arms and tucked his chin toward his chest as he took a step away from her.

“Does your commander not keep you busy enough during your visit to town that you must resort to tormenting a poor, innocent girl?”

“Our apologies, Lieutenant.” The leader of the threesome doffed his hat and took another step away from Margret. “We were not aware that the two of you were acquainted.”

“Whether we are or not is none of your concern. But your treatment of this young lady is a concern.”

Margret wanted more than anything to turn and look at the man who rescued her, but instead, she focused on her shoes. From the corner of her eye, she did catch a flash of red and knew it was the man from the alley.

“Now, I do believe you owe her an apology. And once that is done, I expect you to return to your duties.”

“I am humbly sorry, miss,” the first said.

“My sincerest apologies, miss,” the second added.

“Do forgive us,” said the third.

And without a backward glance, they scrambled off.

Margret bent to retrieve her sack but her heel caught on the edge of her skirt and she lost her balance. Arms flailing, she attempted to remain standing, but it was no use. As she joined her sack on the ground, an even larger cloud of dust exploded around her.
A warm, masculine laugh sounded from above her head, and she braved a glance to locate the source. Words failed her as she gazed up into the face of a young man in a British officer’s uniform. No wonder the other soldiers hastened to obey him so quickly. Heat rose to her cheeks at her embarrassing position, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the handsome man standing over her. A few unruly chestnut strands escaped the confines of his pigtail to blow about his shoulders as he looked down at her.

The soldier chuckled and extended his hand. “Do allow me to assist you to your feet. Then, perhaps we can exchange introductions.”

Margret swallowed her pride and accepted his help. His strong grip lifted her easily, and he held on a moment longer than necessary before releasing her hand. She fought back the shiver that threatened to run up her back. Gathering her wits once more, she faced the soldier.

“I do appreciate you coming to my aid, sir, and preventing me from a most embarrassing situation.”

The soldier bowed, never taking his hazel eyes off of her. “It was my pleasure. Now, may I introduce myself?” He straightened and proceeded without waiting for an answer. “I am Samuel Lowe, recently arrived from the area of New York formerly run by the East India Trading Company.”

Margret dipped into curtsy, but the packages in her arms prevented her from using her fan to conceal her face. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lowe. My name is Margret Scott.”
He regarded her for a moment. She wasn’t certain, but she thought she saw a brief flash of recognition in his eyes. Just as quickly, it disappeared. Instead, Samuel reached for her right hand and bowed over it, his self-assured smirk making her heartbeat race.
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

* * * * *

Samuel straightened, but never took his eyes off of young Margret Scott. If his sources were correct, she was the eldest daughter of Major Madison Scott and the granddaughter of Gustaf Hanssen. But the importance of her family didn’t stop there. She also had an uncle who held an esteemed position with the Assembly. Perhaps more than good fortune brought her to cross his path.

“Now,” he began, extending his elbow toward her as he reached for the sack she’d been carrying, “let us return you to whatever it is that brings you to town, and perhaps you can enlighten me as we walk with a little more about yourself.”

Margret hesitated, darting a glance around her as if looking for someone or something. Samuel took that moment to peer down the alley and saw that Thomas had returned. He signaled his friend to wait for him and received a nod in return before turning his attention again to Margret. Slowly, she reached her right hand out toward him, but didn’t quite touch him.

Samuel tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a light pat. “By my troth, I promise that no harm shall come to you.”

That seemed to reassure her, but she didn’t offer any verbal response. That left it up to him to carry the conversation.

“So, how did you come to be walking about town without a companion?”

He felt her stiffen for a second, then relax. “I am not alone, Mr. Lowe. I have come to town with my mother and several other members of my family to…” She stopped and appeared to consider her words before continuing, “…to purchase some much-needed supplies.”

Samuel wasn’t certain, but she seemed to be withholding specific details. If his assumptions were correction, though, her vague response made sense. He knew of the secret meeting at the back of the print shop, but he couldn’t tell her about it without giving away his true identity.

“Ah. And are you to rendezvous with your mother or someone else in your family at any specific location?” Samuel tipped his hat at a passerby, receiving nothing but a look of disdain in reply. He couldn’t tell if his uniform elicited that response or the fact that he escorted a girl several years his junior. Either way, there was no respect offered from that gentleman.

“Yes.” Margret’s voice brought his focus back to her. “I am to meet Mama at the silversmith’s when I complete my purchases.”

“Then, to the silversmith’s we shall go.”

He started to cross the street, when she paused. The pressure against his arm from her hand stopped him as well.

“Mr. Lowe, would it not be faster if we were to take Second Street?” Her arm crossed in front of them both as she pointed to their right.

“Yes, of course.” He recovered his intentional blunder and turned them down the adjoining street. “I have not spent a considerable amount of time here, so certain shortcuts are unfamiliar to me. You, no doubt, are an expert at the layout of this town.”

“Yes, I journey north from our farm as often as possible. So much about life here excites me and begs me to take part. The people, the activity, the new fabrics Mrs. Thomason imports. It is far more interesting than life on our farm, although I do my best to see to my responsibilities there as well.”

Just as he had hoped, Margret’s curiosity turned the conversation away from him and offered him the opportunity to learn more about her.

“And is your farm located far from town?”

“No, but there is so much to do at home, that we do not often have the opportunity to come. Papa works at the shipyard in Wilmington, and Uncle Edric lives here in town. I visit when I am able, but it is not as often as I would like.”

If he had any doubts about her family, she had just given him reason to toss them all aside. “It might be best that you remain safely tucked away on your farm during times of unrest such as we have right now.”

Margret peered up at him with such an innocent expression that Samuel had to remind himself of her youth. Her widened light brown eyes and smooth complexion paired with the lappet cap that covered her honey-blonde braids pinned underneath showed a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman. Although she possessed a blossoming beauty that appealed to him, it wouldn’t be wise to encourage anything further at this point. The potential existed for more, but not yet. He had to gain her trust first.

“Unrest? Do you refer to the dissatisfaction of many colonists toward the British?” She gave him a once over and regarded his uniform with a mixture of apprehension and interest. “In truth, I do not know that it is safe for me to be seen in your company.”

Her guarded expression said far more than any words. And the way she paid close attention to each person they passed gave credence to her doubts. Samuel needed a way to convince her that he meant no harm. But what could he do?

Taking Tuscany - Chapter 1

Taking Tuscany
David C. Cook (May 2009)
by
Renee Riva


Chapter 1

All Greek To Me

“A. J., come over here and tell me something.”

“What, Mama?” I make my way over to the big picture window in Mama’s new guest villa.

“What is the first thing you notice when you look out this window?”

“A blue villa.”

Mama grabs my arm and escorts me into the bedroom. “And this window?”

“A blue villa.”

She grabs my arm again and pulls me into the bathroom. “And this window?”

“A blue villa.”

“Exactly!” This time, instead of my arm, she grabs the peach
guest towels off the rack and hurls them at the window. Then she
runs into the bedroom and throws the new guest pillows at the bedroom
window. Out on the horizon Uncle Nick’s blue villa is basking
in the sunset over Tuscany.

“How am I supposed to act gracious at Aunt Genevieve’s birthday
party, knowing the opening of my guest villa will be undermined
by that blue monstrosity on the hill?”

“Oh, Mama, I wouldn’t take it personally. Uncle Nick just likes
the color blue.”

Mama looks at me like I have lost my marbles. “Just likes the
color blue? A. J., nobody in his right mind paints his villa blue. That
is the charm of Italy—rustic, natural stone structures on hilltops. You
don’t take a beautiful historic monastery and paint it putrid blue.”

“Maybe your guests won’t notice it.”

“Won’t notice it? How could anyone not notice?”

I turn my gaze back out the window and cock my head in every angle possible. “Maybe they’ll notice the poppies instead.”

Mama gives me the exaggerated eye roll. “Poppies, schmoppies. Sorry, little Miss Pollyanna, but from my perspective, the only thing out there is one big ugly blue villa …”

Daddy walks into the room, looks at Mama, then glances at the pillows and towels lying on the floor. He looks back at Mama with a hopeful smile. “Does this mean we get to stay home?”

I’m sure Daddy would like nothing better than to skip the whole encounter with the relatives. Sometimes Uncle Nick is just too much for him. Unfortunately Uncle Nick is married to Mama’s sister, Genevieve, who is turning forty-five tonight.

“No, it does not mean we get to skip the birthday party,” Mama says. “I haven’t had the chance to play Sofia Loren for the Greek relatives yet. The Italians sure fell for it at Adriana’s photo shoot in Rome last month. Miss Loren was born in Rome, you know.”

Daddy and I look at each other. “We know,” we say in unison. She’s only told us that five hundred times since we moved here.

Mama marches out of her guest villa back to Bel Castello, our rustic, run-down natural stone castle, to get ready for the party. It’s not a good sign that Mama is on her way to a party in her present frame of mind. The good news is Grandma Juliana—who insists we call her Nonna now that we’re in Italy—won’t be joining us tonight. She is still under the illusion that Uncle Nick is Italian, and would not be happy to discover the truth. She has something against marrying
outside of “our rich Italian heritage.” She also has a problem with Greeks. At the moment, she’s not the only one. Mama thought Uncle Nick was joking when he mentioned his plans to paint his villa blue. But … apparently not.

After slipping into my mandated outfit and looking in the mirror, I head straight to Mama’s room to try to talk her into letting me wear my denim overalls instead. As expected, the answer is no.

Mama is making her Miss Loren debut in a poppy red pantsuit and is sporting the latest Sofia Loren signature haircut. There’s usually a movie-star buff in every crowd. We’re all counting on one to notice Mama tonight so she can play her Sofia/Sophia autograph game. That’s all it will take to shake her foul mood.

One thing Mama has going for her—she looks more like Sofia Loren than the real deal. People notice her almost everywhere she goes. And when they don’t, she still looks great. Her sister, Genevieve, looks good most of the time but has these hips that won’t quit. Sometimes they look like they need to quit growing.

“Mama, how is it that you and Aunt Genevieve are sisters, but she’s always gaining and losing weight, and you just stay the same size?” She changes every time I see her.

“A. J., let me put it to you like this; inside every skinny woman, there is a chubby one fighting to come out. There’s one main reason my sister battles weight. She likes to cook. Let that be a lesson to you. The more you can stay out of the kitchen, the better you’ll look.”

“But how do you find a husband who doesn’t want someone who likes to cook?”

Mama smiles. “Watch this.” She calls to Daddy in the bathroom, where he’s getting dressed. “Hey, Sonny?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you rather have a great big wife who likes to cook for you all the time, or a slender bombshell who can’t cook?”

“A slender bombshell who can cook.”

“That’s not an option. How about a slender bombshell who cooks occasionally?”

“That’s you, baby. I’ll take it.”

Mama looks at me. “See that? He thinks he got a good deal—we both win. A good marriage is about making compromises you can both live with.”

Daddy comes out of the bathroom wearing a Don Ho–style V-necked shirt and black slacks. He wanted to wear his old parkranger pants from his days at Indian Lake State Park, so he could at least be comfortable. But Mama handed him the Don Ho outfit instead.

“So, Mama, where’s the compromise on what Daddy’s wearing tonight?”

Mama looks at the park-ranger outfit lying on the bed. “Some things are nonnegotiable.”

According To Their Deeds by Paul Robertson

According To Their Deeds


Bethany House (March 1, 2009)




Monday




Morning


Only one chair was empty.

"Sixteen thousand. Do I see seventeen?"

Charles slipped into the open seat. He paged through the catalog.

"The bid is seventeen. Do I see eighteen? Thank you, eighteen thousand dollars. Nineteen?"

A man beside him, in thick black-rimmed glasses, leaned over.

"I figured you'd show up."

"Which lot are we on?" Charles asked.

"Number sixty. The desk."

"Derek's desk."

"Nineteen, thank you. Twenty?"

"You knew him, right?" the man said.

"Yes."

"Twenty. The bid is twenty thousand dollars. Do I see twenty-one?"

Gold sconces on the pale blue walls pooled light on the white ceiling, and gold and crystal chandeliers showered light down on the fifty dark blue upholstered chairs. The carpet was even darker blue and very thick, a deep river, soaking up every sound but the auctioneer's voice.

The crowd was darkly upholstered as well.

"Do I see twenty-two?"

A wide young man in the front row lifted a wood paddle.

"Twenty-two, thank you. Do I see twenty-three?"

He did, somewhere else in the room.

"Everything's going high," the man in the glasses said. "Too many out-of-towners. I just wanted to buy back what I sold the guy, but I haven't won a bid yet."

"Who's bidding right now, Norman?" Charles asked.

"That guy with the frizzy hair, he looks like Einstein? He's from a big New York showroom. And up front, in the brown suit, he's from Houston. And that guy's from L.A. Everybody else has dropped out."

"The bid is twenty-eight thousand. Do I see twenty-nine?"

"Like I said, it's all going high," Norman said.

"It's a nice desk."

"Oh, yeah. Everything's real nice, all of it. The guy had great taste. Too bad he's gone, he was a great customer. But that desk, I'd have said twenty-six, twenty-eight for it, and we're blowing through thirty without a hiccup. But I don't do furniture, so what do I know."

Every sound of conversation sank into the carpet's downward pull. Wooden paddles rose and fell, or waved like water lilies on bottomless currents.

"I'm glad there was an empty seat," Charles said. A dozen people were standing at the back wall.

"A guy I knew was sitting there a minute ago."

"Oh—is it his chair?"

"No, I think he left."

"Thirty-four. Do I see thirty-five? The bid is now thirty-four thousand. Any bid?"

There seemed not to be. Mr. Einstein from New York, with his wild white hair and black mustache, had bid last and now stared straight and smugly forward.

"Thirty-four thousand. Going once, twice—" The auctioneer's eyes darted, reacting to some new movement deep in the room. "Thirty-five, thank you. The bid is now thirty-five thousand. Do I see thirty-six?"

Heads turned and searched, but Mr. Einstein himself hardly reacted to this new unknown. He only raised his own paddle.

"Thirty-six. Do I see thirty-seven?"

He did, and everyone else did as well. A woman in a light gray suit and very improbable blond hair, standing against the back wall. She held her paddle out like a sword.

"Thirty-eight?"

Charles paged through his catalog. Lot Sixty, Cherry Pedestal Desk, Philadelphia, 1876. Other people were flipping pages as well.

"Not much of a description," Norman said. "Is there something special?"

"It's historic. Derek was proud of it."

"Oh, wait, that's where they found him, right? On top of it?"

Charles didn't answer. The bidding advanced, a conflict of deliberate and formal violence.

"Because that could be worth a premium," Norman said. "They'd clean it up, right? They wouldn't sell it with blood all over it. But you've got to be careful cleaning those old finishes. You can take them right off. I think it was a lot of blood, too."

"Do I see fifty? Fifty, thank you. Fifty-two?"

The formal quiet and the auctioneer's drone stretched a placid surface across the room. All that could be seen was slow and purposeful, apparently calm. But a tension was growing between the two bidders, like monsters beneath the surface sensing each other and edging into battle.

"Fifty-two. Do I see fifty-four?"

He did immediately.

"Fifty-four. The bid is fifty-four thousand dollars. Do I see fifty-six?"

"Fifty-six. Do I see fifty-eight?"

"Somebody's going to hit their limit," Norman said. "Fifty-eight grand! That's twice what it's worth."

"Do I see sixty?"

The blond woman's impudence was finally getting to the man from New York. He waved his paddle defiantly. It was, in the depths, a first ripping by sharp teeth; anger had been provoked.

"Thank you. The bid is sixty thousand. Do I see sixty-five? Sixty-five, thank you."

"Do you know who she is?" Charles said.

"I've never seen her."

"Sev-en-ty-five." Mr. Einstein had spoken it aloud, each syllable a separate word.

"Seventy-five. Do I see eighty?"

The woman's paddle jerked.

"Eighty. The bid is eighty thousand. Do I see eighty-five?"

"One hun-dred," Einstein said. The room gasped, every person, at the three distinct syllables.

"One hundred thousand dollars. Do I see one hundred five?"

Without hesitation, the woman thrust her paddle straight up, and through.

The man set his paddle under his chair.

It was over, suddenly. A leviathan had been vanquished and now sank away into ultimate deeps.

"One hundred five thousand. Do I see one hundred ten?"

"Not likely," Norman said. He would have been too loud, but the carpet sucked his voice right out of the air. "A hundred five, that had to hurt."

The victor had wounds to nurse, but the battle was past.

"One hundred five. Any other bid? Going once, twice." A pause. "Sold. Lot sixty sold for one hundred five thousand dollars. Next will be lot sixtyone, a Tiffany lamp. Bidding will open at fifteen hundred. Do I see fifteen hundred?"

"What was that?" Norman said. "Fifty was way over the line! A hundred grand? Now that was crazy!"

Ripples of conversation troubled the surface but that was all; the deeps were now still.

"There must be a reason," Charles murmured. The room was filled with murmuring.

"I'd like to know what reason. Twenty-five thousand for the desk and eighty thousand for the reason."

"Thirty-two hundred. Any other bid? Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-one for three thousand two hundred dollars. Next will be lot sixty-two, a marble table. Bidding will open at three thousand. Do I see three thousand?"

"So we're back to normal," Norman said. "Thirty-two hundred's high, but just a little. I guess when people fly in from up northeast and from the coast, they don't want to go home empty-handed."

"It's a large collection," Charles said. "It would pull people in from all over."

"I wish they'd stayed back where they came from. But if it's even just the dealers he bought stuff from, it could be this many people. The guy bought all over the place. All I wanted to do was buy back the stuff I sold him."

"Yes. I think you mentioned that."

"But it's all going too high. I'm not going to spend more on a lamp than I can sell it for. At least that blond lady is gone."

She was.

"I do wonder who she was," Charles said.

"Just as long as she's not here to bid on anything I want. Not that I'm getting anything anyway. A hundred grand for a desk! It's crazy."

"I wonder what Derek would have thought," Charles said.

Norman pointed at the next catalog page. "I bet that's the lot you're after."

"Yes."

"Number sixty-four. You got here just in time."

"Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-two for five thousand six hundred dollars. Next will be lot sixty-three, two Windsor chairs. Bidding will open at five thousand. Do I see five thousand?"

"Those are nice," Norman said. "I don't do furniture, but those are nice. From Vermont, 1920, all handmade. The real things. It must have taken a long time to pull all this stuff together."

"A lifetime."

"And poof, here it's all gone in three hours. Kind of funny, you know?"

The auctioneer's voice stabbed the air, slicing and cutting, on and on, relentlessly.

"And his wife doesn't want it." Norman said. "It's her selling it off, right?"

"I believe so."

"She's making a bundle. Especially after that desk! I wonder if she knew he was worth so much? His stuff, anyway. Did you get the list?"

"The catalog?" Charles asked, with it in his hand. "This?"

"No, the list from the police."

"I don't know of any list from the police."

"It's the stuff that got stolen, you know, that night he got killed."

"Any other bid? Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-three for thirteen thousand dollars."

"They want dealers to be looking for it," Norman said.

"No, I didn't get that list."

"Next will be lot sixty-four, a set of thirteen antique books. Bidding will open at ten thousand. Do I see ten thousand?"

"This is you, right?"

Charles nodded.

"Good luck," Norman said.

"Thanks."

"I guess no books got stolen."

"Ten thousand, thank you. Do I see eleven?"

Norman kept talking. "So that's why they didn't give you the list. Police and FBI, too. They're all looking."

Charles had his own paddle in his lap. He watched the bids increase.

"How much will it go for?" Norman said.

"Twenty-three, twenty-four for the set, maybe twenty-five."

"Remember, it's all going high. You sold them all to him in the first place?"

"Fifteen thousand. Do I see sixteen? Thank you, sixteen thousand."

"Yes. A book at a time, over the last six years."

Charles leaned forward, watching the different bidders.

"Do you know everyone bidding?" Norman said.

"So far."

"From around here?"

"No. Briary Roberts in New York. Jacob Leatherman himself from San Francisco."

"The old guy?"

"Yes."

"Did you know he was coming?"

"We had dinner last night."

His eyes were on the contest. The other bidders took turns, pushing the price up.

"Twenty thousand. Do I see twenty-one?"

Charles lifted his paddle. Now he was joined in the battle himself.

"Twenty-one thousand." For a moment, he owned the bid. "Do I see twenty-two?" And then he did not. "Twenty-two, thank you. Do I see twenty-three?"

Suddenly the bidding intensified with quick jabs from Jacob Leatherman, and then New York again.

"Twenty-five? Thank you. Do I see twenty-six?"

Jacob Leatherman's paddle quivered in the air.

"Twenty-six. Do I see twenty-seven?"

Charles signaled, quickly.

"Twenty-seven thousand. Do I see twenty-eight?"

Jacob was frowning from across the room, but his paddle was on the floor.

"Any other bid? The bid is twenty-seven thousand. Going once, twice, sold. Lot sixty-four sold for twenty-seven thousand dollars."

"But I thought you said it was only worth twenty-four," Norman said.

"Sentiment."

"Next will be lot sixty-five, a wood inlay chess set. Bidding will open at two thousand dollars."

"I don't do books," Norman said, "so what do I know. Oh, I sold this chess set. I'm just trying to get back what I sold him."

Charles stood and took a deep breath and moved toward the door.

*

Charles stepped out from the building into very bright sunlight.

It took a moment to adjust.

Traffic was heavy. On the sidewalk, a dozen people were scattered over the length of the block. The gray stone and mirrored windows of the office building across the street were very bright.

A cardboard box was in front of him, tight in both hands.

He turned south toward Pennsylvania Avenue, three blocks away. The faces he passed were stern and silent against the world, or talking on cell phones, alive, animated, in other worlds. Charles stopped at the first corner.

He was being followed.

Across the street a young man had stayed even with him. He was in torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and he had stopped on his opposite corner. A well-dressed woman, passing him, instinctively drew back, and hurried past.

Charles waited.

Abruptly the man sprang from the curb and sprinted, dodging cars. His eyes were on the box in Charles's hands. A car squealed but the young man, lithe and quick, was already across.

Charles waited. The predator came to a halt, inches away.

"Hey, boss," he said, in a low voice.

"Don't cause a wreck, Angelo."

He shrugged. "You got that?"

"Twenty-seven thousand."

"For a little box." His accent was urban Hispanic and so were his black hair and shadowy face.

"You take it," Charles said.

"Back to the shop?"

Charles handed him the box.

"Take it to the shop. I'll be right there."

"Okay, boss, I'll take it, it's not any problem."

"Be careful."

"You are worrying for me, boss, or you are worrying for that box?"

"The box isn't going to do anything foolish."

Angelo smiled, a tiger showing its teeth. "I am smarter than that little box."

"Try to be."

With no other words he turned away, only walking but very quickly. Charles continued on his own way to a Metro station, and descended into the ground.

*

"King Street. Next stop Eisenhower Avenue." The doors whirred and Charles was on the platform, looking out at the streets of Alexandria. The escalator took him down to them.

The pocket around the station was in giant twelve-story scale, of offices and plazas, tied to the rest of the city only by it being brick. Beyond, though, a few blocks of King Street brought Charles to the three-story scale of real west Alexandria, authentic and shabby from a century of pawn and secondhand existence, now getting better but still not good.

Then another five blocks east and the buildings were solid and many were very good, and rents were high and the shop windows cleaner and the doors were appealing instead of simply peeling.

Charles crossed noisy Washington Street and into the heart of crowds and crowds. At Market Square he turned right into quiet streets, then one more block, and finally up two steps, and into a place that was very, very quiet.

*

The first impression was always the quiet. It was the special calm silence of books aging, books that were very practiced at aging.

"Hello, Alice."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Beale." Alice had a way of speaking that did not disturb the silence. "Mrs. Beale was just asking if I'd seen you."

The second impression was the quiet of color. Only the part of any color that could last decades was left in the room. Even loud colors were quiet.

"Is she upstairs?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Then the smell, which was faintest, half like a forest and half like old linen, but sharp.

"And have you seen Angelo?" he asked.

"No, sir." Her dress was the russet of a bright red cover faded over forty years.

"I didn't think he'd be back yet." The counter stretched across the right side of the room and stairs went up the left side, and a rail ran across the back.

"And have we sold anything?"

"A 1940 Gone With the Wind."

"I can empathize with Scarlet," he said. "I feel like I've just come from the burning of Atlanta."

He opened the gate in the middle of the rail and climbed the steps.

*

"There you are."

Her voice was quicksilver and light and everything peaceful.

"Here I am," Charles said. "Dorothy, it was worse than I'd expected."

"I'm sorry." Her hair was slow silver, short and easy, and lovely. "Were you there long?"

"Twenty minutes. But I sat beside Norman Highberg."

"Oh, dear." She smiled, which was the moon at its brightest. "Did you get the books?"

"Yes, for twenty-seven. I had to outbid Jacob Leatherman just at the end. Oh, he scowled!"

"He'll get over it, and you will, too. I'm glad you got them. It helps to close the circle with Derek."

"It does help. And I have to tell you about Derek's desk." His own desk was at the front window, and he sat and pushed aside newspapers and magazines and catalogs to make space for an elbow.

"I suppose there was something special about it?" Anything would be special if she only spoke its name.

"Everything he had was special. But this was more than just ordinary special."

"It was auctioned today?"

"Yes, and sensationally." Now that he was sitting, he stretched his back, and put his hands behind his head. "I came in right in the middle of it. It should have gone twenty-five thousand, and it was about to go for thirty-four, and whoosh, two people bid it right up to a hundred and five thousand. There was a riot."

"A very calm one, I'm sure."

"People actually turned in their chairs and looked around. It was that drastic."

Her blue eyes widened in her own calm amazement. "Why would it sell for so much?"

"It's a complete mystery." He stared out the window at the street. "Poof."

"What?"

"A lifetime. Three hours and it's gone."

"Selling off all his things?"

"His world. Everything he was, all scattered." With his hands behind his head, the space on his desk he'd cleared for his elbow was empty now, abandoned.

"Life is more than what you own," Dorothy said. Her own desk was perfectly ordered, with a computer screen, a neat pile of papers, and two photographs. She put her elbows on the empty middle and looked at him.

"Oh, I know," Charles said. "But that's what's left at the end."

"He was an important person, wasn't he?"

"He was a bureaucrat in the Justice Department. Yes, he was important." He glanced at the newspaper. The first page was rancor in Congress, and the president refusing to cooperate, and officials denying any wrongdoing. "What would the Post print if there were no scandals?"

"Hollywood divorces, like everyone else."

"I guess that would be worse. Every story on the front page is about someone's failing."

The sun was overhead, in the west, full on the townhouses across the street. The shadow of his own building was creeping toward them.

He read a paragraph. "This poor man," he said. "A highly respected federal judge. Ten years on the bench. Then it comes out that he cheated on his exams back in law school. Over thirty years ago! First he was forced to resign, and now he's being disbarred."

"It does seem severe."

"There is more to life than what you own. There's also what you've done wrong."

"And what you've done right. Charles, you're getting moody. Did you bring the books home?"

"Angelo has them, speaking of lives lived questionably."

"I didn't know you took him." The two pictures on her desk were of Charles and of a teenage boy.

"I just decided at the last minute."

"Was he dressed all right?"

"No, he was not. There wasn't time. He wouldn't have come inside anyway."

"We have a delivery for him to make this afternoon in Arlington. And I was thinking we should get him a suit for his next probation review."

"His regular business clothes are fine." He dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. "Felons in suits annoy me."

"Besides Angelo, how many felons do you know?"

"Aren't we all?"

"Mr. Beale?" Alice had come up the steps. "Mr. Leatherman is here to see you."

"Take a deep breath," Dorothy said.

Charles did.

*

"Jacob!" Charles said from the stairs. "Welcome!"

"What did you do that for?" It would have been a growl, but from such a small and fragile man it was a yip.

Charles reached the floor, smiling all the way. "Let me get you a chair." He swept through the gate and came to rest at his guest. "I'd invite you to the office but it's up all those stairs."

"I don't need a chair."

"I'm glad you could stop in. I was sorry you couldn't after dinner last night."

"I have time before my flight and I don't like sitting in airports. I told the taxi to bring me here."

"I'm so glad," Charles said.

Jacob smacked the floor with his walking stick. "You're glad? You're gloating, that's what it is, for outbidding me. What did you do that for?"

"You could have bid higher if you wanted them, Jacob."

"That's all they're worth. Now I'm going back without anything."

"I'm sorry your trip was a waste. I'll sell them to you, if you want."

"How much?"

"Thirty."

"Thirty?" He smacked the floor again. "They're not worth that. I'd have bid thirty if they were."

"Then I guess I'll keep them."

"I didn't come to have you gloat. I'll give you twenty-three." Smack.

"Thirty-five. And you're perfectly Dickensian when you do that."

"Bah, humbug then. Dickensian?" He rubbed his nose. "I like that. And you said thirty."

"You should have taken it while you could."

"Whippersnapper! Mocking an old man! You'll give me apoplexy, and I have all those airport lines to go through yet. You'll send me to an early grave."

"That's no longer possible, Jacob."

"I know when I'm not wanted. I'll leave if that's how it is." He narrowed his eyes. "The Locke, I'd have liked to look at that one. Is it as nice as you said it is?"

"It is, Jacob. Nothing special—I know you've seen better ones. But it's nice."

Jacob's scowl lightened a little. "I like looking at them. Do you have the books here?"

"No. I had a courier bring them."

"A courier? Why would you do that for?"

"Just common caution. Shall I call you a taxi?"

"I have one waiting outside. Did you say twenty-five?"

"Thirty-five."

"Thirty-five!" Whack. "Mocking an old man. I'll leave. I have to go."

Charles held open the door. "Then have a nice flight."

"No such thing." He started slowly and painfully down the first step, and then froze. "What's that?! Don't touch me!" He lifted his cane.

Angelo was four feet from him, also stopped, his eyes slits and his white teeth showing.

"Jacob—" Charles started.

"Street gangs!" Jacob yelped. "Here at your door! That's why you use a courier!"

"Jacob," Charles said. "This is Angelo Acevedo. He is my courier."

Angelo was silent.

"Just take the box in," Charles said.

Jacob shrank back as Angelo passed. "You let him touch your books?"

"I do," Charles said. "And it's fine. Let me help you to your taxi."

"Bah! I'll make it myself."

"Take care, Jacob."

"You too, Charles." Once Jacob was launched he moved quickly. The cab door was opened for him, the cab driver was scolded, and the cab drove away.

*

Charles closed the door and took a deep breath. "Angelo. Everything went okay?"

"Except that old crazy man."

"That's Mr. Leatherman, and he's actually very nice, just prickly."

Angelo frowned. "What is prickly?"

"Like a cactus."

"Like a little dog to bite at you."

"He doesn't bite, he just barks. But never mind. You took a long time."

"I came a different way from you, or why should I even carry the box instead of you?"

"You're right."

Angelo held out his hands. "So, boss, here is your box."

"Thank you." He took it, respectfully. "Go check with Mrs. Beale. I think she has a delivery for you to do this afternoon."

"Okay."

"And Angelo ..."

He turned back from the steps and waited.

"Do you remember the delivery we made together, last November, and the man had the chess set on his desk, and he talked to you in Spanish?"

"I remember that house and that man."

"That is the man who died. These are his books that I bought back today."

"Oh, that man?" He shrugged. "That's too bad."

"It is too bad. That book we took him, it's here in this box."

Angelo glanced at the box with no greater interest than before, and then turned to his next task.

"I'll be in the basement," Charles said to Alice.

*

But he was interrupted. "Mr. Beale?"

Charles had just started for the basement.

"Yes, Morgan?"

As Angelo had ascended, Morgan had descended. He sat on a step halfway down. "There's a first edition Odyssey that just came up on eBay."

"Which translation?"

Morgan had stopped too high and he had to lean forward to see into the showroom. He bumped down one step, and all his pale face and red hair floated into view. "Alexander Pope."

"A 1725 Pope first edition?" Charles snorted. "I doubt it!"

"The listing says first edition. And it says it's signed by the author."

"The translator, you mean."

"It says the author."

Charles paused. "The Odyssey, signed by the author. That would certainly answer the question of whether it was written or oral. I suppose I should come and see."

*

"Do you think it could be anything you'd want?"

Charles squinted at the picture on Morgan's computer. "Not much of a picture."

"It's not a dealer," Morgan said. "Just an individual."

"Send an email. I want to know the usual—the publisher and city, number of pages, and the date. And I want a picture of the title page, and see if he'll tell us where he got it."

"How much would it be worth?"

"A 1725 Pope first edition? Even in poor condition, at least thirty thousand. But that's nothing like a first edition. I'd say it was nineteenth century. How long is the auction?"

"One week. It just started this afternoon."

"Keep an eye on it. We'll see how high it goes. I might decide to bid once we hear back from the seller."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Morgan."

*

Charles stopped at the door to his office.

"Was Jacob all right?" Dorothy asked.

"Yes. Just being sociable. Have you ever read Homer's Odyssey?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember which translation?"

"No. It was in college." She noticed the box in his hands. "And that is the books?"

"This is Derek's books," he said. "Yes. I'm taking them to the basement right now to work on them." He looked at the box in his hand. "Or maybe I shouldn't."

"Why?"

"There might be Greeks hidden inside."

"That was the Aeneid, and that box is not a horse, and they would have to be very small Greeks."

"The Trojans didn't think they were in any danger either."

Afternoon

Down, down, down. He unlocked the door at the bottom and turned on the light.

The building was as old as most of the books, which was fitting. The basement had served many purposes; framed photographs in a corner showed what the renovation had uncovered. The floor had been bare earth for the first half century or so, and then quarters for two slaves, and then for two servants after the Civil War. Then it had been storage and children's rooms and disuse alternating over more years until it had finally become what it now was.

Now the walls were filled with shelves, and the shelves were filled with volumes, and the volumes were filled with ... everything. They rested in their ordered ranks, contemplating the deepest and widest thoughts man had accumulated since contemplation had begun.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were thick and fireproof. The dry, cool air was thick with their philosophies, histories and literatures. It was a very safe place for books.

A few very valuable volumes were in the bank safe deposit, and the lesser items were in the display room upstairs, but this was always the foundation and the heart.

Charles set the box on the desk and turned on the computer.

Then he opened the cardboard box and lifted out the first package, wrapped in crisp brown paper. The paper fell open as he cut the tape.

He opened a drawer and took white gloves, thin clean cotton, to put on, and then he touched the book.

The boards and spine were the brown of soil walked on and worn hard and flat. The lettering was faint.

He lifted the volume and studied it. The spine was sturdy and the page edges were aligned, with none loose. He cradled it in one hand and opened the front board.

The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith.

A two-inch square of light green paper slid off the first page. Alexandria Rare Books was printed on it, with the numbers 7273 2002 handwritten below.

He closed the book, turned it over, and opened the back board. Then he closed it again, turned it vertical, and opened to the center and then to a few other pages, efficiently and carefully, inspecting it at every angle.

Finally he set it back on its wrapping paper and turned to the computer. He typed 7273, read through the book's history on the screen, and then started typing: Purchased at auction 4/21/08, Derek Bastien Estate. Condition unchanged, very good. Price—

He paused and wrote the name of the book on a scrap of the brown paper. He wrote $3,100 beside it, and then typed that number onto the screen. He carried the book to a shelf and moved a ceramic block to make a space.

He typed 235 into the Location field on-screen.

Then he stared again at the brown paper, and paused.

"... eleven ... twelve ... thirteen ..." And he frowned.

But then he shrugged and started on the next package.

*

"Mr. Beale?"

"Yes?" He had four books and four prices listed on the brown paper. Two glass jars and a few small brushes were beside the book he was just closing.

Morgan had marched down the steps. "I'm getting the Anthony Trollope for Angelo to deliver."

"Do you need the computer?"

"For just a minute. And I think Alice was just answering a phone call for you."

"Mr. Beale?" Alice's voice marched down the steps. "There's a call for you, Mr. Edmund Cane."

Charles slid his book into its new space and picked up the phone.

"Charles Beale."

"Good afternoon." A slow, deliberate voice. "My name is Edmund Cane."

"Yes, Mr. Cane? What can I do for you?"

"I understand you were at the Bastien auction this morning?" Every syllable was a distinct word.

"Yes, I was."

"You were present during the sale of the Honaker pedestal desk?"

"Derek Bastien's desk? I was."

"Perhaps you saw the young woman who purchased the desk?"

"Mr. Cane," Charles said. "I hope I'm not being impertinent. By any chance, do you happen to have white hair and a dark gray mustache?"

The phone was silent as Einstein contemplated an equation or two. "Yes, I do. I see you remember me."

"I certainly do, Mr. Cane. It was very dramatic."

"Do you have any idea who might have wanted the desk?"

"Well, you did," Charles said.

Time passed slowly, at least at Charles's end of the phone. Morgan slipped the green label in the front of the Trollope and started wrapping it in brown paper. "Anyone else?" Mr. Cane finally said.

"I am sorry. You might try Norman Highberg. He has a showroom in Georgetown, and he knows the general antiques market much better than I. I only do books."

"Actually, your name was among those given me by Mr. Highberg."

"Hey boss, do you have the box for me?"

They both turned toward the door. In dark pants, dark shirt and dark tie, Angelo was transformed.

"Yes," Charles said. "You're always quiet coming into a room."

"Everything is so always quiet here." There was no transformation of his voice, or his eyes.

"Mr. Cane?" Charles said into the telephone. "I'm sorry, I'll be just a moment."

Morgan sealed the cardboard package. "I'm done." He handed it to Angelo.

"Be very nice to the customer when you see him," Charles said.

"Oh, I am always nice."

"Do they think that you're being nice?"

"I don't know what they think."

"I should ask them. You have the receipt for them to sign?"

"I have that."

"Then we'll see you when you get back. Thank you, Angelo."

"Yes, boss." And then he was gone.

"I'm sorry," Charles said again to the telephone. "Is there anything else I can do to help you?"

"I would like to identify the young woman who bid against me. Do you know anything about her?"

"No, I don't. I'm sorry."

"You have never seen her before?"

"Not that I remember."

"How unfortunate."

"Actually, Mr. Cane, I did just think of something. I don't think it would be much use. But an employee of mine was waiting outside the building. He might have seen her leave."

"Could you ask him?"

"He just left for the afternoon. I'll ask him this evening. But I doubt it would be much help."

"That could be a great help."

"I guess it's all relative," Charles said.

"Good day, Mr. Beale."

"Good day, Mr. Cane."

Morgan was looking at the books on the desk. "Those are the Derek Bastien books?"

"Yes. It doesn't look like they've been touched since we sold them. They all still have their green labels in them."

Morgan picked up one of the glass jars. "Was something loose?"

"Not particularly. The Gibbon had a little spot on the spine. I remember gluing it back when Derek first bought it, but it must not have dried all the way."

"There are fourteen of them?"

"No, thirteen."

"Maybe the computer's wrong. Should I put them on the website?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you when. I think they need a little rest first."

*

The room was silent again. The invaders had all been repulsed.

Charles took the next book, the fifth, out of the box.

They were all books of law, government and human rights, by John Locke, Edmund Burke, Adam Smith, John Adams, David Hume; Rousseau, Voltaire, Montesquieu, de Tocqueville and more; man's nature and man's hopes of overcoming it, or at least containing it.

He held the wrapped book, staring at it. He slowly raised and lowered it, feeling its weight.

His eyes darkened and his brow lowered in anger.

He removed the paper, very slowly.

It was John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The first page was as it should have been, but there was no green paper square. The back cover was normal.

Even as he held it, though, his fingers tensed. He stopped until they had relaxed and he was ready.

Reluctantly, he put his finger against the pages. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. He opened the volume near the middle.

"No!"

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was still the same.

"Alice?" he called up the stairs, when he could, trying to sound normal. "Could you ask Mrs. Beale to come down here, please?"

*

"Look," he demanded, even as she was still in the doorway.

It was still on the desk where he'd set it. Defiled.

"What is it, Charles?" Her voice was the stillness that smoothed the waves, and her presence was the water's depths untouched by the storms above.

He touched it. "The pages are cut."

She came close, and she saw it, and his shock and grief was mirrored in her eyes. He waited for her to pass through the sorrow, as he had.

"What is that?"

He touched it, nestled in the hollow space, just a plain box of playing cards. The book had been hollowed for it.

"A card box."

"Which book is it?"

He sighed. "John Locke."

"Why?"

He could only stare. "I don't know."

Together, they could only stare. Then Dorothy asked the first practical question.

"Would Derek have done it?"

"Who else?" He shuddered. "It must have been." The book lay open, embarrassed, on its spine. The cut was exactly sized to fit the box; only a very sharp knife could have cut so cleanly. Charles shivered. "But I can't believe he would have."

"How are the other books?"

"I haven't finished them."

"You should." Encouraging, empathic, and a little stern, all together.

"I'll dread opening each one."

"I know. That's why you need to get through them."

"Just stay down here a little while, won't you?"

"I will," Dorothy said. The book was lying on its brown paper, and she closed it and pulled the whole thing to the side of the desk.

Charles lifted the next package from the cardboard box, took a breath, and opened it.

*

"That was the only one," Charles said, with the last of the other twelve books safely on their shelves.

"We'll have to do something with it," Dorothy said.

"We can't leave it here." He pulled the paper back to the center of the desk. "I don't know what to do. Just throw it away? I couldn't bear to."

"It's completely ruined."

"Thoroughly, through and through. I've never had to deal with such a thing. I can salvage the boards, and maybe we'd use them."

"I suppose we could just put it on the shelf."

"That would be as bad as throwing it away," Charles said, "and I'd see it every time I came down here."

"Then throw it away. I'll do it for you."

"Let's wait."

Dorothy had finished with sentiment. "The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

"But not today." Charles put his hand on the closed book. "I suppose we should see if anything is in the little box." He opened the book. The box of cards hadn't moved.

"What if there is?"

He looked at it bitterly. "Then I'll propose a couple rounds of poker." He put his fingers on the edges of the box. "It isn't even period." He worked it free and weighed it in his hand. "Not cards, anyway."

"I hope it wouldn't be." Her voice was always musical; now it had a note of curiosity.

"It's too light," he said, and opened the top flap. "No jewels, no money, no ancient treasures. Just some papers."

Dorothy moved closer to see. "They must be important."

"They'd better be." Several white sheets were folded together, and he opened the first. "I don't even know what this is. A list." Fifty or more handwritten lines, each two letters, a date, and a number. He showed it to Dorothy.

She read one from the middle of the page. "GJ, nine-twelve-oh-five, twenty-two fifty."

"His computer passwords," Charles said. "Or his automobile mileage."

"Why would he keep his mileage inside John Locke?"

"Why would he keep anything inside John Locke? I don't know." He opened another page. "A copy of four checks." He looked at them closely. "Cashier's checks. They are made out to ... Karen Liu."

"That's a lot of money," Dorothy said.

"Five hundred thousand in all."

"I wonder who Karen Liu is."

"I remember Derek mentioning her name." He frowned. "She is a congressman. Congresswoman. Congressperson."

Then they both were silent. It was a silence of confusion, where thoughts were almost audible.

"Why—?" they both said. Dorothy finished the question.

"Why would Derek have that paper?"

Charles answered, staring, but not at anything. "I don't know."

"And what would the checks be for?"

"I don't know."

Dorothy took the paper. "They're dated eight years ago. When did you sell him that book?"

"Five years ago."

"I wonder where he kept the papers before that."

Charles broke from his reverie. "Oh, he must have had some other hiding place. Maybe he had a hole chiseled out of a Renaissance statue? Or a Ming vase? Or maybe thumbtacked to the back of a Van Gogh."

"Did he have a Van Gogh?"

"I don't think so. But I wonder why he had them hidden at all." Then slowly, he opened a third paper. It was a newspaper article. Charles and Dorothy both read the headline.

Man Killed, Police Search County for Wife.

"We shouldn't look at these," Charles said.

"Maybe we should return them."

"Yes," Charles said. "That's what we should do." But he sounded doubtful.

"Will you call his wife?"

"I don't know. I don't know whose they should be. Legally, they're mine."

"I don't think they were meant to be sold," Dorothy said.

"I'm sure they weren't. But sale at auction is absolute."

"You don't want to keep them, do you?"

"No. It just means that they are mine to figure out what to do with."

Now Dorothy was doubtful. "What did he do at the Justice Department?"

Charles folded the papers and put them back in the box. Distastefully, he pushed the box back into its lair. "Derek was Chief of Staff to the Deputy Assistant Attorney General for Legislative Affairs."

Dorothy frowned, and the solemnity that had watched over the room shifted its gaze elsewhere. "I had no idea such a position existed," she said. Her tone was plain that she saw no need that it should.

"It did. It does still, I suppose."

"Then those papers must have something to do with it. They don't have anything to do with us."

"It's still a poor place to keep them," Charles said.

Dorothy's attention was pulled back to the object on the desk.

"What will you do with the book?"

He stared at the ruin of it. "That is the real difficulty. Oh my," he sighed. "I'm so disappointed."

"How much is it worth?"

"I was going to say four thousand," Charles said. "It was the most valuable book he had."

"How much did you sell it to him for?"

"Twenty-six hundred, five years ago. But it's not the money anyway."

"It's what it says about Derek."

Now they were back to the beginning. "Yes," Charles said. "Exactly. If he needed to hide something, there must have been a hundred other places that didn't require destroying something. I remember delivering that book myself, and we talked for an hour about just it. I even remember the chess game we had while we talked."

"He must have had a reason for doing what he did."

"I'd like to know the reason," Charles said.

Shame - Chapter 1

Shame
David C. Cook (May 2009)


On the Tractor

My name is John Tilden, and this is a story about my life.

My parents always thought I’d grow up to be a doctor. I don’t know how they settled on this—not through personal knowledge of one, since I don’t recall any doctor ever staying in our small west Oklahoma town long enough for anyone to get to know him. Maybe it was General Hospital, which my mother watched furtively when she knew my father was in the fields; maybe it was simply the default dream uneducated country people have for their sons. In any case, all the time I was in high school they had this image of me ministering to the sick and, maybe, pulling down a six-figure income to provide for their old age.

My high school sweetheart, Samantha Mathis, thought I should
be an architect or an engineer. I don’t know why she settled on these occupations for me, since I displayed almost no aptitude in those directions, but when she sat on my lap and kissed me and sketched out our future, I was more than happy to entertain the notion, and made sure all the colleges I applied to had engineering schools, just in case she might be right about me.

I had the idea that I’d become a lawyer or a writer. I’ve always
been good with words, on paper at least, so unlike those other
notions, those options seemed reasonable.

None of these dreams came true. What I ultimately became was
a farmer, like my father and his father before him, and I plow the
sandy red soil of the farm where I’ve lived the better part of forty
years. It is not, I think, what anyone expected, but life, as they say, has a way of changing your plans.

People have always told me I was a thinker, but I believe they
meant different things at different stages of my life. When I was
growing up, they meant that I was destined for a future far beyond
the dusty confines of Watonga, Oklahoma. What they meant once
I passed the age of thirty was that I thought too much for my own
good.

Trouble is, going off on a mental tangent is one of those things
you can’t avoid if you’re a farmer and you’ve got half a mind. Driving a tractor just doesn’t require that much concentration: You chug around in an enclosed space that grows ever smaller, turning left whenever you run out of row. That’s it. A ten-year-old could do it, and this isn’t just folksy exaggeration. I’ve been driving a tractor in these same fields since I was ten years old. Hard to believe so much time has passed and only the tractor has changed: The spindly red Ford is now a monstrous red International Harvester, and here am I, still seated behind the wheel.

The hours stretch as I manhandle the tractor into a turn, shift
gears, lower and raise attachments, listen to the dull roar of the
engine outside the glass-windowed cab. There isn’t much to do out
here besides think, which is what I was doing on that afternoon last fall where I want to begin this story.

I thought about my farm: the price of wheat, currently three
dollars a bushel, although it would drop back to $2.50 when the glut of harvest began in June; the calves I planned to buy and fatten over the winter on the very wheat pasture I was planting at that moment; the repairs I’d need to do on the combine before the next harvest, something perhaps to occupy me on a winter morning or two after the calves were fed.

I thought about my family: my wife, Michelle, much-loved beatnik senior English teacher at our alma mater, Watonga High; our oldest child, Michael, a moody college dropout (just temporary, he claimed); our obedient son B. W. (named Brian Wilson Tilden by my wife after her favorite rock star poet); our youngest, Lauren, twelve years old and changing so quickly in body and mind that I could scarcely keep track of her from week to week or even day to day.

I thought about the basketball team I coached, the Watonga High School students who, as soon as football ended, would take to the court under my part-time tutelage for the third straight winter: B. W., my point guard, throwing passes with the beauty and
precision of geometric diagrams; Larry Burke, whom I called “Bird” because of his wispy mustache and his fadeaway jump shot; Martel and Tyrel Sparks, fast and agile forwards with a lot more talent than discipline; stolid, solid Jimmy Bad Heart Bull, long dark hair in a ponytail, grabbing another of those rebounds that seemed to appear in his hands as though willed there by the Great Spirit. A team, unfortunately, with mostly unrealized promise.

And I thought about myself, the life I inhabited, moving at five miles per hour in a field of dwindling squares enclosed inside each other like Russian nesting dolls, and the contrast with all the lives imagined for me in years long past. Those lives, the ones from which I expected to choose, vanished for reasons you will hear, and yet in some ways they were still there, always present. Maybe a phantom life is like the phantom limb of an amputee: The future I lost still felt tangible—possible, even—but whenever I reached out for it, my hand passed through empty air.

To understand that feeling completely, it’s necessary to go back much further than last fall—to go all the way back, in fact, to the winter of 1974. It was the beginning of basketball season at Watonga High, the moment before my life changed for good, and—as they too often used to—that’s where my thoughts drifted that afternoon last fall while the tractor toiled. The future was revealed only slowly, of course, peeling off event by event like layers of an onion, but in the winter of 1974, I still believed that great things lay ahead, that nothing bad would ever happen to me.

For those four short months from December to March, as
the world outside changed from ice and snow to wildflowers and
redbud blossoms, life was golden: I was in love, colleges were writing acceptance letters, and our team was playing basketball like no one in town had ever seen before.

Bobby Ray Daugherty set a single-game district scoring record
that season that still stands, forty-seven points against our archrival, Thomas High School; Big Bill Cobb earned All State honors at center and went on to play college ball for Southern Methodist in Dallas after becoming one of the leading scorers in Oklahoma high school basketball history; Phillip One Horse returned from a five-game suspension for repeated and flagrant infractions of Coach Parker’s team rules and pulled down seventeen rebounds against Comanche to help us advance to the state finals; Jim “Oz” Osborne threw up a thirty-five-foot set shot at the buzzer of the Comanche game to seal our victory; and I was a point guard with so many targets that I led the conference in assists for two years running, the kind of player who could always make other players look better.

Together, the five of us did what no Watonga High School
sports team had done before or since: We won a state championship. For years after, whenever people from Watonga wanted to conjure us up out of the past, they simply mentioned the year we won it all—1975—and sighed, or without further clarification, referred to “The Team,” and there was never any doubt on Main Street who they were talking about.

We were a team, true enough. The five of us had played together
for what seemed like our whole lives. On the court, we completed
each other, covered for each other’s weaknesses in a way that was
marvelous to behold. It’s too bad that we couldn’t do that for each
other off the court and in the life that followed.

Because, you see, it is no easy thing for a young man to conquer the world—remember how Alexander the Great is said to have wept when he realized there were no more worlds to conquer?—and that is what a state championship means in a country town held together mostly by its school and sports. Between the five of us, I think we represented every possible reaction to early greatness: As of last fall, Bobby Ray had gone through two wives, had three corporations file for Chapter Eleven, and lost more money than I will ever be able to earn; Bill had played college ball, earned his degree in business administration, and stayed on in Dallas where he parlayed his smile, handshake, and jovial laugh into his current life as a bigwig in commercial real estate and the Texas Republican Party; Phillip robbed a Watonga liquor store with a couple of other malcontents in 1979, did ten years hard time in McAlester State Penitentiary, and after his release, hid out on forty acres north of town; Oz went to pharmacy school at Southwestern State courtesy of his pharmacist father-in-law and grew stoop-shouldered from fifteen years of hanging over the counter of that pharmacy down on Main Street, helping the elderly and indigent who are just about all who remain in a town like ours.

And me? Well, in February of 1975, when Samantha Mathis
broke up with me for the first and only time, I was paralyzed with
grief. Phillip One Horse was even at that early date a reliable guide
to the world of alcoholic excess, so when my life’s fateful moment
presented itself to me early one Saturday morning in the person
of cute and lanky Michelle Hooks, I was too drunk to recognize
it as a fateful choice until it was too late and the rest of my life was
determined.

When Samantha drove out to the farm thirteen days later and
tearfully apologized for our fight, we got back together, and I thought it would be best if I didn’t tell Sam about Michelle. Besides, our moment together had really become nothing more than a pleasantly foggy memory.

Sam and I got back to making plans about our future life together,
talking about marriage—when it might come, what it might look
like. She wanted five bridesmaids, which in those days was an awful lot, although I’ve seen more since.

The last time Samantha and I ever talked about marriage was
later that spring when I pulled my truck over to the side of a country road in the middle of a thunderstorm and told her that I was going to have to marry someone else.
Michelle Hooks was pregnant, and I was the father.

I will never forget the silence that stood between us, an invisible
wall in the tiny enclosed space of my pickup cab surrounded by the noise of falling water. First she had cried, which was bad, but then she was silent, and that was worse. She wouldn’t look at me. We sat, the engine revving, “Fire and Rain” crackling in from distant WKY-AM in Oklahoma City, sheets of water pelting the roof and hood. I thought maybe it was starting to hail. A fierce ache rose up from my stomach and took root beneath my rib cage, and I had no real hope or belief that it would ever leave.

“Are you sure it’s yours?” she finally asked. She was still looking
out the fogged-up window toward the fields green with winter
wheat.

“Yes,” I said. I was sure.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

I bit my lip, let out a pained sigh, shook my head. I was not sure what I was doing, supposed I would never be sure again. “But I have to,” I finally said, and raised my hands, palms up, in front of me, a gesture I’ve performed since I was a kid, a gesture that can mean variously “I’m sorry” or “What can I say?” or both, which is what it meant then.

And that was that. My life in the wider world with Samantha, my career as doctor or architect or engineer or lawyer, someone that people might have treated with respect—all of that was gone. I never really had another choice. Maybe in some places this type of taboo would not require ritual expiation, but in Watonga, Oklahoma, in 1975, the dictates of my conscience and the mores of my community were in perfect accord; there was only one thing I could do and still call myself a decent human being.

People have always insisted that I am a good man, and to a certain extent I believe them. I have tried never to do anything in the dark that I wasn’t willing to make good in the light, and my faith tradition teaches that we are called to do what is right, not what is easy.

I got Michelle Hooks pregnant, so I married her.

And that is how my life changed forever.

Michael came along as anticipated; after Michael, we had two
children who were more or less planned. I took over my parents’
farm out west of town near the Canadian River, and in 1991, a
few years before the story I am to relate, I agreed to help out my
impoverished alma mater by volunteering my time as basketball
coach, an arrangement mostly satisfactory for all concerned.

When I was on the tractor and imagining my life as satisfying—
for truly, much of it was—I liked to think of it in terms of the land,
my family, the gorgeous rip of a basketball finding nothing but net,
and Michelle. Basketball season, after all, was my favorite time of
the year, and for more reasons than just the sport. There were, for
example, those chilly winter evenings that time of year, sitting with Michelle in the fire-lit living room at the far end of our house. The kids floated in and out, depending on their homework and which of the broadcast channels was coming in visibly on our TV. Michelle graded papers, did lesson plans, or curled up with a book. I did my share of reading, and when there was room at the desk, I did my share of writing: letters to my parents in Arizona and to my little sister, to former players lonesome for mail away at college, to Bill Cobb and Samantha—for the girl I loved in high school did not stray outside our team to find a husband—in Rockwall, a suburb of Dallas, where they rubbed elbows with interesting neighbors like Marina Oswald, widow of Lee Harvey, and Olympic track star Michael Johnson, the kind of people I would never meet unless they got as lost as Robinson Crusoe.

On those winter nights, with the fire glistening in the glass of the fireplace insert, the wind whistling across the north field and into the thick stand of cedars my father and I planted along the north side of the house, some Eagles or James Taylor playing low on the antiquated turntable in the bookcase, we sat, Michelle and I, and occasionally we would look over at each other, our eyes would meet, our mouths would curve slightly upward into smiles, and I’d remind myself that things sometimes turn out for the best. Michelle and I had not always loved each other—or rather, I had not always loved her—but I did at last learn to, and wasn’t it better to be unsure at first and in love twenty years down the road than the other way around?

Still, there was that night the family and I were watching an
episode of Unsolved Mysteries about a husband and father of five kids in Galena, Kansas, who got on the tractor one morning and left it sitting empty at the crossroads of a state highway five miles away, engine still running.

“He was murdered,” Lauren theorized from her spot on the love
seat. “Or kidnapped, maybe.”

“By aliens,” B. W. said, his mouth full of popcorn. I reached
down and took a handful for myself.

“He ran out on them, Lauren,” Michael muttered from the floor.

“How could anybody do something like that?” Lauren shot back.

“Maybe he just thought if he plowed one more row it’d be the
death of him,” I said quietly, my mouth full.

Michelle glanced across at me, but with the kids present she didn’t dare ask whether I spoke from personal experience. Not until
later.

Not until bedtime.

One of the rules of our marriage had always been that when we talked at night, after the kids were in bed or otherwise absent, we would be totally honest with each other. I am not a compulsive truthteller—I believe that there are sometimes situations in which a lie is less harmful and certainly kinder than the truth—but over the years, I had never told Michelle an out-and-out whopper at bedtime, and I felt confident she had been equally forthcoming with me. I would not say it had always been easy or that it had bound us together in unbreakable chains of marital trust, but certainly it had never done permanent damage to our relationship, although it might occasionally have altered—or eliminated outright—the cuddling or other activities that might reasonably be expected from a married couple at bedtime.

“J. J., what did you mean, earlier this evening?” she asked, sitting
down on my side of the bed, still fully clothed. I generally went to
bed after hearing the weather on the ten o’clock news, sunup coming awfully early, but Michelle was a night owl and often stayed up to read or work or listen to music.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I can understand how people might want to get out from underneath all that. It’s not always joy and bliss being Farmer Dad.”

She ran her finger lightly down my arm. “Bad day with Michael?”
It was a logical question. Our eldest supposedly had a job working
the closing shift at the local Pizza Hut, which would account for
his being gone all night and sleeping all day. When he was here and awake, he was surly, if he bothered to speak at all. Still, that wasn’t it, and I think she knew it.

“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t even see Michael until I sat down in
front of the TV tonight. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he still
lived here.” I reached up to her, tried to pull her toward me, and she did lean a bit closer, although she made me come up the rest of the way to meet her. After she kissed me once, softly, and nuzzled my cheek, she stood up, walked to the door, and hit the light, leaving me in darkness.

“You know, I do understand,” she said as she closed the door, and
maybe she did, although it was also true that late that night when
she came to bed and snuggled close, rousing me from a light sleep
and dreams of far away, she whispered into my ear, as she sometimes did at such times, “J. J., do you love me?” and I muttered back, somewhat less than half-awake, “You know I do, Shell.”

And this, I swear to you, was gospel truth, for however it was that we began our life together, Michelle is a wonderful woman, and if it took me a long time to accept just how wonderful, I did learn at last. I could not have imagined a better mother for my children, or a wife who cared more for me. Michelle knew me so well, had loved me for so long, that perhaps she did indeed understand the sad, sorry, shameful impulses that could make a man imagine leaving his tractor, his home, and his family, those same impulses that make up most of the story I am to tell you.

All of these things went through my mind on that sunny September day in 1994 as I listened to Don Henley sing of forbidden love, loud and raucous on the tractor’s cassette player, as a fly pattered forlornly against the inside glass of the enclosed cab, as the warming sun dropped slowly toward the far rim of the Canadian River Valley a few miles west: things from my past, present, and future. I had been around long enough to understand that, taken all together, these were the truths about life: Things had happened; things were happening; things were going to happen.

The last of these truths remained mysterious to me, as it must.
But all the same, with so much thoughtful time on my hands, I
couldn’t help but sit and wonder.

Did my future include another twenty years on a tractor in red
dirt, turning ever inward on myself? Or would there come a day
when I drove straight and true toward the far horizon?