The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “How would that have looked for us, Ethan? Us seeing each other once, maybe two times a year? I left without telling you because I thought that’s what would be easier—for both of us.”

  No matter my loyalty. In the end, making a clean break had seemed the best choice, the least painful.

  The thought shattered me. For didn’t I put myself through pain every day in order to strengthen my muscles? Wouldn’t BUD/S training put me through the worst physical and mental pain I’d ever known? Yet I sought it out. Trusted it to hone me.

  Why then, when it came to people I cared about—Ethan and even my mother—did I shy away from the hard? Was it possible that going through the fire in these places could make our bond stronger, could heal it even?

  While I didn’t make a habit of keeping and coddling memories from childhood, there was one I couldn’t shake. I was eight, sitting on the toilet of our apartment, trying to muster enough courage to rip a Band-Aid off a scraped knee from a bicycle fall. I stared at the grout in between the tiles, grimy from wear and lack of cleaning. I’d wanted to keep the Band-Aid on; Lena insisted I take it off. She came into the bathroom, a silky light Victoria’s Secret robe around her skinny waist, the polished toes of her tanned, bare feet on that dirty grout. She knelt beside me, looked at me for the first time in a long time. “Sometimes you just have to take the pain, Hayley. Rip it off and then it’s over.”

  Now I wondered if that’s how she felt when jabbing needles into her arms. Feel the pain, then it’s over. Why had I ever thought to listen to this woman’s advice?

  That day on the toilet, Lena had ripped my Band-Aid off, and it hurt. But she was right about one thing: I didn’t have to agonize over it anymore. The pain was gone.

  That’s kind of what I thought I’d been doing when I enlisted in the Navy without a good-bye to either Ethan or Lena. Ripping the Band-Aid off. Yes, it would hurt, for all of us. But once it was done, I wouldn’t have to wonder about making the right decisions anymore. I wouldn’t have to wonder about saying good-byes.

  Now, staring both Ethan and my past in the face, I wondered if my reasoning had been all wrong.

  “Was it easier for you, then?” Ethan asked.

  I swallowed. His fingers pressed against my skin now, finding the delicate pulse that throbbed heavy at not only the topic of conversation, but at his nearness. “I missed you,” I whispered. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Yes,” he said, bringing my hands up against his warm chest. I felt small beside him, safe—things that once reminded me of weakness, but I didn’t mind in this moment. He mapped my face with his eyes, seemed to explore every part of me. “Was that too much to ask after all we shared that summer?”

  Some sort of mysterious force held us together. Desire churned within me, sending pulses of deep want to every inch of my limbs. Another crack of thunder rolled outside. Finally Ethan lowered his mouth to mine, slight stubble on his face brushing against my skin. I deepened the kiss, and passion erupted inside me.

  With the remembrance of his touch, of his lips, I felt a teenager again. A blanket of sand beneath us, waves sounding around us, Ethan had shown me that physical love didn’t have to be a forced and dirty thing. It could be tender, beautiful.

  We’d found stones that night, smooth, with white swirls.

  “Let’s bury them here, Hay. To remember this night. To remember us.”

  Were they still there? Did Ethan ever think of them?

  I ran my hands beneath his shirt, found warm skin and muscle, longed to draw him closer.

  But he took my hands in his own and ended the kiss on a groan. “We can’t.”

  I looked at him, rejection setting something on fire within me. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not how we ought to do this.”

  I’d been good enough for him in high school, but now that we were adults and didn’t have to skulk away and hide on a beach, I wasn’t?

  “Fine.” I turned away, searched in the cupboard for the can of tuna I’d bought earlier in the week, trying not to show my hurt.

  “Don’t do this, Hay.” His tone had an edge, a warning.

  I flipped my ponytail over my shoulder. “What?”

  “You know what.” He came around the island. “You’re the one who left us. There’s still this bond between us, but no way for me to even know where you’ll be tomorrow. Maybe you can sleep around with your Navy guys and not give it a second thought, but I’m not one of them. And I don’t play that way.” His voice softened. “You know what it took me to get over you? I’m not ready to go through that again.”

  Why did I feel like the bad guy here? And why did I want to abandon ship, demand he leave this very moment? Maybe take his stupid tea chest with him.

  And at the same time I wanted to fall into a pile of girlish tears and beg that he forgive me, ask how he could be so very honorable and good while I didn’t seem to have a chance at finding anchor.

  Some things, it seemed, would never change.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Hayley

  ETHAN HAD STAYED for lunch. Stilted conversation, awkward embarrassment over tuna sandwiches with too much mayo. After we’d finished our meal, he took our plates, rinsed them before placing them in the dishwasher. When he was done, he turned to me, dish towel over his shoulder, arms crossed. “Ready to go?”

  “I should really get in a run, actually. Probably try Lena again. Why don’t you go on without me? Maybe I’ll catch up later.” It wasn’t a total lie. Another run would do me good. BUD/S was coming fast and maybe letting myself get distracted hadn’t been the smartest move.

  “It’s raining.”

  “A little rain doesn’t stop a SEAL,” I said.

  He looked at me, mouth tight. “Right. A SEAL.” He put the dish towel on the counter, grabbed his keys off the island. “Okay, no problem. Call me when you’re ready.”

  I pointed to the genealogy book. “Don’t you want to take all that?”

  “No, we’ll catch up when we catch up.” He opened the door, then he was gone.

  I rubbed my eyes with my palms, stared out the slider window to where streaks of rain ran like tears on the glass.

  He was so relaxed about everything. Why couldn’t he not be in control for once?

  I blew my hair away from my face and went into the bedroom to change. A run would clear my head. Then I would go to Medford, see Lena. This time I’d camp on her porch until someone came home or opened the door.

  I laced up my sneakers. It wasn’t too late. I’d come here for a purpose, and I would carry it out. I wouldn’t let my mother define this Ashworth legacy.

  My last name echoed around in my head, making me think of the genealogy book and Ethan, the Michael Ashworth we skimmed over.

  I got off the chair, ignoring the sudden urge to call Ethan and apologize. I took the Kinsley genealogy, flipped to the Civil War page, stared at the short information on Michael Ashworth and Jack Kinsley. I paged to an outline of Noah Winslow and Emma Malcolm’s family tree, saw that Michael and Jack were both great-grandsons of the couple, but while the branch of Jack’s family tree seemed to continue, it appeared Melissa’s uncle hadn’t researched Michael’s further than the three children he’d had prior to the war.

  Looking at the tree, I understood why. Noah and Emma Winslow had two granddaughters—one had married a Kinsley; the other had married an Ashworth. To research every branch of the family tree would have proved overwhelming, certainly.

  The chances were slim, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder . . . I grabbed up my phone, tapped out a text to Uncle Joe.

  Kind of an offhand question . . . you don’t know if we have a Michael Ashworth who died in the Civil War in our line of ancestry, do you? If not, how far back can you trace our lineage? You know, anything before Grandpa Dan?

  My thumb hovered over the Send button as I pondered how absurd it was that I suddenly cared about my family heritage. Honestly, except for being related to Uncle Joe, I�
�d never particularly cared about where I’d come from, hadn’t known my grandfather except through Lena’s scathing remarks.

  I sighed, hit Send, and put the phone down. Uncle Joe never responded right away—sometimes, with his missions, I didn’t hear from him for weeks.

  I stared at the screen. When no response came, I chastised myself for thinking I could be related to this chest—and its originator. Besides, we were trying to figure out the story behind the chest, not my family ancestry.

  Still . . .

  I went to my phone again, found Melissa’s name this time.

  Hi Melissa, it’s Hayley. I was wondering if you might be willing to connect me with your uncle Jed? I have a few questions.

  Her reply came quick.

  Sure. He loves talking about all that stuff and will probably be very interested in your find.

  She listed an e-mail and a phone number. I opened up the mail app on my phone, composed a quick note explaining how we’d been in touch with Melissa, what Ethan and I had discovered, and finally asked if he’d done any additional research after he’d published his genealogy. I didn’t say why I asked but did sign the note Hayley Ashworth, hoping he’d notice the connection. I sent it, put my phone aside, rubbed my temples, and wished I hadn’t been so childish about what had happened between me and Ethan.

  Our time together, our time to figure all this out, was limited. Of course I had trouble seeing that in the midst of my anger, in the humiliation of rejection.

  Yet calling Ethan to apologize didn’t sit well with my pride.

  I didn’t particularly care for this part of my personality—the part that worked hard to shield me from emotional pain, from rejection. But I had no idea how to open it up, pry it loose from where it had been firmly locked since childhood.

  Outside, the sun broke through dark-gray clouds, shining light upon the drenched boards of the deck. Droplets gathered on the boards beneath the brightness, splendid like a million diamonds. They hadn’t looked beautiful until the sun had touched them with its brilliance.

  Too bad my soul couldn’t change just as easily. A little touch of sun to make it more beautiful, more loving, more forgiving, more soft.

  Yet I knew, from experience, that allowing for such things would only increase my chances for hurt. It was simply safer this way.

  All those things that made me vulnerable and weak brought nothing but pain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hayley

  ETHAN MET ME outside the Medford Public Library. I allowed him to take the chest from me.

  It had taken me an entire day to call him. An entire day of sending e-mails to Melissa’s uncle, an entire day of willing my uncle Joe to text me back, an entire day of pouring myself into my training, nursing my wounded pride, and again knocking on Lena’s door and not receiving an answer.

  Ethan let me enter the library ahead of him. “Did he say where he’d meet us?”

  I shook my head, my attention drawn to an older man in a dress shirt with a prominent stomach, who raised his hand at us and shuffled over, arm extended long before he reached us. “Hayley?”

  I held my hand out. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Kinsley.”

  “Please, just Jed. And you must be Ethan?”

  Ethan shifted the artifact under his arm and held out his hand, gave Jed a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “I asked the librarian if we could use the learning center to talk for a few minutes.” He led us to a room, where Ethan placed the chest on the table before us.

  Jed held his hands out to it but didn’t quite touch the sides. His glasses slid down his nose. “Would you look at this . . . ? Amazing. I haven’t seen it in years and now . . . well, it’s taken on a whole new meaning, hasn’t it?”

  I opened the freezer bag with the original oath. We had only shown Melissa, but I felt Jed should see it too. I took it out, unfolded it with care. He didn’t touch it, just looked it over with such respect and admiration that both the oath and the tea chest seemed to grow in value before my eyes.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “We plan to hand it over to the Tea Party museum. We were just giving ourselves a few days to find out more, if possible. We hoped to figure out why the list was in the bottom of the chest in the first place. And why your family didn’t know about it.”

  Jed nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the round-robin. “And you’ve narrowed it down to Noah Winslow.”

  “He was the only one from that time in your family, and his name is on the oath.” I pointed to Noah’s name, upside down and angled toward the bottom of the paper.

  “Unfortunately, colonial writings are rare, though they did increase with the war. I took it upon myself to research a bit last night and this morning—I hope that’s okay?”

  I nodded, released a nervous laugh. “It is your family.”

  He smiled—a kind smile. I noticed a worn ring on his finger and wondered if he and his wife were happy. If they had been married for a long time, if their children—Ian and Elizabeth, I knew from his research—would pass on the genealogy book, if their family line would continue to record their history.

  Again, that foreign sensation of loss over not knowing my own family’s history—over maybe not even really caring—came to me. A sense of loss over what would likely never be. To be proud of my family line, committed, loyal—as I was to my military family. But that happened over time. It was born of sacrifice for one another, going through tough times and sticking by one another. The only thing that linked me to Lena was a chain of tarnished memories: abandonment, neglect, manipulation.

  Why then couldn’t I release the idea of seeing her before going to BUD/S?

  Ethan shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at Jed. “Did you find anything worth noting?”

  He placed a stack of photocopies on the table. “I found some journal writings from a Reverend David Osgood, who served in Medford. He mentions Noah and his wife, Emma, a couple of times.”

  He handed us the papers, some margins marked here and there. Ethan and I pulled out chairs and sat, the papers between us. I skimmed the first page, my gaze stopping at the star in the right margin. I looked at the text beside it.

  There are many in my flock who endure the consequences of battle. Samuel Reed suffered a minor wound to the shoulder, yet infection set in quite of a sudden. We lost him last night. He left a wife and three wee ones. Noah Winslow lost a leg and seems to rely heavily on the rum to deliver him from pain. With so much recent loss, I see a sadness gripping the family. I pray for my flock. I pray the Lord works out good in the midst of darkness. I pray we comprehend what it is we fight for and are able to stand firm alongside that which we have decided is worth so much suffering.

  Ethan flipped to the next notation.

  I buried little Mary Fulton today. Such a sad state of affairs, ’twas. Though Mrs. Winslow tells me that some of her last words were of trusting the Lord.

  Another flip of a page, another notation in the margins.

  I pray in earnest tonight for Mr. and Mrs. Winslow. Word has it that Mrs. Winslow found herself captured in Boston. I fear it is due her own foolishness, and that of Mrs. Fulton. Rumor spreads that General Washington plans to attack the city imminently. Mr. Winslow is beside himself, insisting he go to his wife. I tried to persuade him of the uselessness of such an attempt. A man with two good legs could not enter safely into Boston.

  Mrs. Winslow is in the Lord’s hands, may He save her.

  Ethan turned the page, but no more existed.

  “That’s it?” I looked up at Jed.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, what happened to them?” I’d cared about Noah Winslow before I’d read Reverend Osgood’s entries, but though it was only a few sentences, Noah and his wife had suddenly become more than just names—they’d become people, those who’d fought for their country, who’d struggled and had known tremendous loss.

  They were real.

  What had their ending held?<
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  “We may never know.” Jed took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “But I think while we’re here, we should look in the library’s database, see what we can find.”

  We agreed, letting Jed guide us in our search on one of the library’s computers. He started with Noah and Emma Winslow’s names but came up with nothing we didn’t already know. Slumped over the computer, Jed stared at Reverend Osgood’s missives, his eyes landing on the last passage, the one that told of Emma Winslow being caught in Boston due to her own foolishness and that of a Mrs. Fulton.

  “Sarah Fulton,” he said. “There’s been more written on her than most. I ran into her often when studying this area’s Revolutionary history. When I researched our genealogy, I found her husband, John Fulton, was a friend of Noah Winslow. It appears Emma Winslow and Sarah Fulton knew one another as well. Maybe if we search the Fultons, we’ll find something more to go on.” With renewed energy, he searched both John and Sarah Fulton. Pages of information came up. What we learned fascinated me—Sarah’s role in disguising the Mohawks the night of the Tea Party, her later foray into spying and being honored by General Washington himself.

  But we didn’t find the Winslows’ names anywhere.

  Ethan tapped a pointer finger on the table beside the keyboard. “Do you think Mrs. Fulton’s spying had anything to do with Emma Winslow being captured in Boston?”

  Jed’s brow crinkled, a thinning piece of silver hair crossing the wrinkled skin, falling over his forehead. “I would think if Emma were a part of such a venture, she would have been given credit for it by General Washington. Unless . . .”

  “Unless . . . ,” I prompted.

  “Unless her involvement was kept secret. Much of the Fulton history we’re reading is based on what was passed down from the family. I’m not saying it isn’t based in truth, but perhaps there was more to it that didn’t get passed down.”

  Like the chest. Where did it all fit?

  I groaned. “We may never find the story behind it all.”

  Jed bestowed a kind smile upon me. “Sometimes the past is not meant to be known. And sometimes, it just takes a bit more persistence in finding. Your next stop should be the historical society. They often have records the library doesn’t. It’s worth a shot. And what of you, Miss Ashworth? Did you research any more of your history?”