The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  You didn’t look?

  No. I did hear from the museum this morning. They sent the chest and letter out for testing.

  That’s good.

  I stared at my phone, but no response. What was there left to say? We’d discovered almost everything we’d wanted to know—the story behind the chest and the oath, the fact that I was, unbelievably, a descendant of Emma and Noah Winslow.

  Perhaps we simply wouldn’t ever know where the break in the family’s story was.

  I should be able to feel peace with that, and yet I felt nothing but anxiety.

  I didn’t hear from Ethan until I’d been training at BUD/S for a week.

  He texted me an article.

  CHEST FROM THE BOSTON TEA PARTY DISCOVERED

  A symbol of the American Revolution has been discovered and is now returning home.

  When Ethan Gagnon purchased an old tea chest from an estate sale in Medford, Massachusetts, for his antique shop in Revere, he had no idea he was purchasing a symbol of our country’s freedom. He gave the chest away as a gift to Lieutenant Hayley Ashworth of the United States Navy, an old childhood friend. It was Ashworth who discovered a historic document hidden in the bottom of the chest. A secret oath in the form of a round-robin, signed by participants in the Boston Tea Party.

  Both the chest and the oath have undergone rigorous testing and have been proven authentic. The Boston Tea Party Ships and Museum are now in possession of both artifacts and are currently updating their list of those who participated in the Tea Party.

  “It’s absolutely exciting,” said Steven Preston, museum director. “We assumed when the Robinson chest came home to the museum in 2012 that this would be the last artifact to be discovered, but history continues to surprise us.”

  Gagnon shared his journey of discovery, relaying how he and Ashworth alerted the Medford seller’s family as to the historical value of the chest. The family, who did not realize the chest had been more than an heirloom, is happy to see it on display at the museum. They will come, along with Gagnon, to the unveiling ceremony Thursday, July 20, when the chest will return to the very spot where it was thrown overboard nearly 250 years ago.

  When asked if the Navy might allow Ashworth to return for the unveiling, Gagnon simply smiled and said, “She had a big hand in getting the chest this far, but she’s doing something very important right now, something any friend would be proud of. I truly hope she can come, but if she can’t, I understand. She’s a strong woman. I’m glad to know her.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Hayley

  HELL WEEK

  NAVAL SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  Strong arms dragged me up from the sand. “You got this, Ashworth. Don’t leave us now. You got this.”

  I blinked, pain returning to my body as I woke from where I’d passed out. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, yet I already grieved the time. I grieved the remembering of my time in Massachusetts, my time with Ethan, my time learning about Emma. It all seemed so far away, like a fairy tale compared to this hard, cruel place.

  I imagined the bell again, remembered Emma staying strong to the end for the good of her country.

  Unable to speak, I stumbled toward the O course, more for Carpenter’s sake than my own.

  Over the first wall I went into a mess of mud and scum-filled seawater goop, my head knocking hard into what I assumed to be someone’s boot. My brain numbed. Bitter bile gathered in the back of my mouth, then burst forth from my stomach onto the ground. I crawled beneath the barbed wire through it.

  Explosions filled the air. Smoke, whistling, gunfire. I couldn’t remember anything—why I was there, which way was forward or backward. How many days we’d been training. I could barely remember my name.

  It was there, in the sludge and slop of my own vomit and mud and scum, barbed wire and explosions above me, that I froze. And again, Carpenter was there, dragging me through the sludge. This was a race—he would be punished with extra push-ups for not finishing in the first group. And yet I knew one thing: he would make it. No man left behind. It was who he was, and in that moment I loved him for it.

  Something buckled deep inside me then. I couldn’t stop thinking of Emma, the sacrifice she made for freedom. While she certainly held fondness for the Patriots, her sacrifice had been more than that. It had been for the man she loved, for the friend she loved, for all those who’d sacrificed so much for the cause she’d come to believe in.

  In the haze of that mud pit, in the haze of being dragged by my friend, I wondered why I wanted the Trident so badly. Was it for the good of my country, my family, and my friends? Did I truly think I would be an asset to a SEAL team, or was it as I feared—only a means to prove myself? To prove myself strong, to prove myself worth more than what Lena had given me? To prove myself to not only my mother but to Uncle Joe, to my hometown, to my country, and to Ethan?

  I thought of the hazard I was to Carpenter in this moment.

  I thought of Emma, alone in that cellar. She hadn’t cared about proving her loyalty or her strength, for she garnered those things from Someone bigger. No, Emma had only cared about loving those who may be hurt by her failure.

  I looked at Carpenter, knew I held him back. I thought of where my heart was during this entire training—in Massachusetts. I thought of the hope I hadn’t realized I was holding close to my heart, even now—a hope that there was indeed Someone stronger than me that I could count upon. That maybe real strength wasn’t in proving my endurance or my stamina; maybe real strength was in surrendering.

  There, in the mud, I pondered my hollow attempts to find meaning in a career, in the military, when my family had failed me. I’d locked myself into a mad race to be my best in military life, and when the chance for love or a purpose outside of my set plans presented itself, I refused to give it voice. I refused to give it a chance.

  I was tired of running. Tired of chasing after meaning and strength with the eyes of the world. I had refused to fail, and yet, what if failing—surrendering—was the beginning of finding my true self, of finding real strength?

  I wiped mud from my eyes, felt myself release the very thing I wanted more than anything else. I felt myself release the Trident.

  “Leave me,” I said to Carpenter. “I’m done.”

  “You can do this, Ashworth. I know you can.”

  “No. You can.” I didn’t recognize my voice, had to focus every last bit of concentration to form words. “I’m ringing the bell.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” I looked at him, resolute, my mind clearing. “Carp, it’s okay. It was meant to be this way.” Somehow, I felt it in my bones. And while my pride would be wounded, I felt there was something more waiting beyond the wounds.

  Carpenter looked up the wall that was next to scale. I knew he wondered if he could carry me on his back. “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure. Go get that Trident. You got this.”

  He looked as if he would leave, then finished pulling me from beneath the barbed wire, up to the next wall. I swore at him. “Go!”

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” he said.

  But I wasn’t going anywhere, and really, it had nothing to do with those blasted explosions and everything to do with the absurd peace flooding my being.

  When the explosions finally stopped, I crawled around the course, made my way to the center of the compound, following a handful of my comrades.

  I gripped the rope of the bell and gave it three tugs, signaling my DOR. A note of finality echoed through the compound.

  All those times I imagined ringing the bell, I imagined it would be entrance into a prison of sorts—a prison of failure. But something surprised me when its solid chime sounded from the ancient metal. The note didn’t quite sound like failure.

  Instead, it sounded an awful lot like freedom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Hayley

  I FELT OUT OF PLACE in my maxi ski
rt and flip-flops. My Navy whites would have been a better choice, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I stood outside, searching the crowd in front of the Tea Party museum. I spotted the top of Ethan’s head, his unmistakable solid and tall form by an empty bench, his head bent over his phone. My heart did a flip.

  As I drew closer, I pondered how right this felt, how coming home felt . . . good.

  I could only hope Ethan would think so.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  He looked up from his phone, his mouth dropping open. “You—you’re here.”

  His eyes raked over me. I knew I looked like I’d gone through torture. No amount of makeup could cover the bruises along my face and arms, and I wondered if he would view me as a broken failure.

  He raised a hand to my face, ran a gentle thumb along the curve of my jaw. Beneath his gaze I didn’t have to guess if he thought me broken because succumbing to his touch, I felt only valued. Precious.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I am now.” I swallowed, knew words had to be said, yet I felt inadequate to say them. “So I realized some things at BUD/S. I rang out. But knowing I was able to come back here, knowing you were waiting for me, it didn’t feel like failure. In those trenches, in all that torture, I knew what Emma had felt. That Someone stronger was over her. It made me feel like maybe getting my Trident wasn’t the most important thing after all. Maybe . . . surrendering is. Maybe loving is. Something changed for me over there. I can’t explain it, but it’s like something inside me is new . . . beautiful, even. Crazy, huh?”

  He was looking at me, and my heart sped up. I’d shared too much. And yet I wouldn’t turn back now. “I guess what I’m saying is . . . I’m not sure what all this means, but I was hoping to explore it . . . maybe with you.”

  Without hesitation, he drew me to him, dipped his head to mine. I sank beneath his lips, relishing the feeling of giving myself over to this man, of releasing my need for control. His mouth moved over mine in tender restraint, and I surrendered to it.

  When we broke our kiss, he held me close, whispered against my hair. “Feels like victory to me.”

  Me too.

  It dawned on me then. I could be loyal to Ethan and not lose my freedom. Because he loved me. Real love gave freedom. Emma and Noah had taught me that.

  “I have a lot to sort through, but I promise you something—I will never leave again. Not without intention of returning.”

  “How long until you have to go back to your ship?”

  “Three days.”

  “Then we better make the most of every moment.”

  He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t beg for an apology; he just accepted me.

  I’m thinking that’s how love—real love—acted.

  “Hayley, you came!” I turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

  “Lena?” I looked at Ethan, questioning.

  “I invited your mom, thought she might want to share in the celebration of her daughter.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m proud of you, honey. Ethan told me all you two did. I read about you in the paper, too.” She turned to her side where a broad-shouldered man with gray in his hair smiled at me. “I want you to meet William. William, this is my daughter, Hayley.”

  I shook the man’s hand, couldn’t get over the glow on Lena’s face. She was proud of me. And while it wasn’t exactly a SEAL Trident, for the first time in a long time, I felt fond emotion toward my mother. Maybe it was only the sentiment of being home, of that kiss from Ethan that still lingered on my lips, but it wasn’t bitterness and it wasn’t hate, so I’d take it.

  I thought of Emma, longing for reconciliation with her parents though they’d treated her horribly. I thought of her in that Boston basement, being tortured, praying for her enemies. I thought of Ethan, accepting me with open arms despite my flaws.

  That was how love was supposed to act.

  And right then, I released whatever hold Lena had on me that kept me from thriving. I wasn’t sure if I’d call it forgiveness exactly, but beside Ethan and his acceptance over my many flaws, I thought I might well be on my way toward it.

  He slid his hand into mine. “We need to talk.”

  “I know.” We had a lot to say to one another, a lot to figure out. I’d done some soul-searching these past several days, prayed for wisdom regarding my feelings for Ethan, and yet I still wasn’t 100 percent sure of the path before me.

  We entered the museum, and I clutched his hand, felt the strength of his grip, and for the first time, I took comfort in it.

  We bid good-bye to Lena and William shortly after we’d finished our cones from Ben & Jerry’s. I promised Lena I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, and even though the thought of seeing her again caused no small amount of anxiety, I meant it.

  Ethan and I strolled along Long Wharf hand in hand, alone for the first time.

  “That was . . . special. The ceremony. Lena and Jed and Melissa’s family being there. It was nice.”

  Introducing them to Lena, knowing we were distant family, was . . . weird. Weird, but totally amazing. A newspaper reporter took our picture with the chest, jotted down notes on how we’d discovered our distant relations. It was the first family photograph I had ever taken. Ethan had snapped a shot on my phone, and though others might think it sentimental, I knew I would cherish the picture forever.

  “You know . . . I don’t feel like I want to run away right now.”

  He smiled. “That’s good, because I’m hoping we can talk. And if you’re interested, swing by the historical society later. Gerald said he found something for us.”

  The air conditioner in the window of the upstairs room of the historical society ran on high, blowing cool air to where Ethan and I sat at the table, a written account from Sarah Bradlee Fulton before us.

  I dragged in a breath, hadn’t realized how tense I was. “Do you think this is it?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  We got to work, the papers easier to read and better preserved than those of Emma’s journal.

  October 29, 1789

  I am certain if I live to be one hundred, there will never be a more memorable day for me, nor for my family.

  President Washington visited today. I am in awe of his generosity and the honor he bestowed upon me and my family. Oh, the scrubbing our home endured in preparation for his visit! The children wore their best, as did John. I wore my pale-green damask dress.

  At the sound of the horses, I doubt my heart beat as fast when I went into Boston under siege, Emma beside me. We all waited outside—the children, our oldest son and his new bride—as His Excellency came closer. I could not imagine a more stately figure if I were to try, and though John had naught to worry over, I feared my blushing made him a bit anxious.

  President Washington bowed to me and I led him inside, gave him the Windsor armchair, served him John’s best punch. As we all sat still and quiet, His Excellency spoke, expressed his extreme gratitude for my willingness to risk my life for the cause of our noble country. As I absorbed the adoration and the children’s proud smiles, there was one face among the wee ones that stood out to me most. I wanted to be certain he remembered this moment, remembered that I was not the only one to be honored. That his mother, brave soul, not to mention his father, deserved every bit of recognition, if not more, than myself.

  I called four-year-old Jacob forward, his face reminding me so very much of Noah’s, his eyes those of his mother. Once again, my heart ached over the loss of them both in the meetinghouse fire. I remembered Emma’s words, on the brink of death, asking me to care for their dear, long-hoped-for child as if he were my own, to teach him the things of faith that Noah and Emma so adamantly clung to.

  For the last three years, I had kept my word.

  And now, I would teach him something else.

  I gripped his little-boy hand, ushered him before His Excellency, told our pres
ident of Emma’s heroic deeds and of Noah rescuing her while Boston was under siege.

  After hearing Emma’s story, President Washington bowed to Jacob, the child quite flustered at near royalty bending a knee for him. He then put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, thanked him for his parents’ bravery, and urged him to live a life of honor and love, to carry on the legacy of Noah and Emma Winslow.

  There was not a dry eye in the home.

  After His Excellency left, I hugged Jacob to me, hoped he would remember this day, a testament to the legacy left him. ’Twas good he had the tea chest from his parents, but in some ways, memories mean more.

  I wiped my eyes after reading the last sentence, the silence swallowing up the historical society in a sort of reverence.

  “They never got to tell him the story of the tea chest, of the oath hidden in the bottom.”

  Ethan sniffed, hard. “And it seems Sarah hadn’t known either, that Emma had written her tale and hid it in the stairs, thinking they had many years left.”

  “And yet in her last moments, she focused not on the glory she’d obtained from the war, but on things of faith. In the end, that was most important to her.”

  Pondering this newness of faith I was just beginning to explore, I felt in some mysterious way that Emma’s faith was meeting me, her eight-times great-granddaughter, here in this place.

  She’d never had the daughter she’d longed for, but here, in a strange and intimate way, I felt I could possibly be that daughter. I thought of little Jacob, how he would have two children, one daughter whose family line would include Jed and Melissa and Wyatt, and another whose line would include Michael Ashworth and Uncle Joe and Lena and me.

  Had the legacy Emma wanted to pass on survived? I felt, beyond a doubt, that it had.

  We put the folder away and wandered downstairs, stopping in front of Emma’s display case. Ethan knelt down and pointed at the teacup I hadn’t given much thought to when we’d first seen the exhibit.