by Betty Bolte
Sean grinned and shrugged. “I just had to check to make sure all was right, while the storm was doing its thing. Do you like it?” He swung the hammer like a baton, catching it with his other hand.
Meredith scanned the wine cellar turned tornado shelter and then looked at him. “You did all this?”
“Yes, ma’am. Your grandma reckoned we needed a safe place to be, after them April twenty-seventh tornadoes swept through Alabama a few years back.”
“But we’re nowhere near where those storms tracked through.” She paused, a ripple of concern shooting through her. “Right?”
Sean rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “That don’t mean we won’t see any here, now does it. Tornadoes tend to be a might unpredictable.”
Damn. She feared thunderstorms enough, but she’d tried to put the idea of a tornado threatening the area out of her mind. After living in Maryland for so many years, the frequency of tornadoes had no longer been a real concern. The difference in terrain between the rolling countryside of her adopted home versus the flatter valleys around Roseville also changed the probability of tornadoes forming and traveling where she might be impacted. Double damn.
“Yes, of course. Did you build the wine cellar too?”
“Yes, ma’am, about three years ago. Your grandmother subscribed to one of them mail-order wine clubs and needed a place to store the bottles.” He leaned close and winked at her. “Them bottles arrived faster than she could drink the stuff, you know.”
“Grandma joined a wine club. That explains the bottles of wine in the fridge.” The wooden wine racks stared at her. They could hold eighty bottles, and nearly all the slots were filled. “Well, if we’re forced to seek shelter, at least we won’t be without calming influences.”
Sean chuckled, waving a hand toward a table against the wall behind him. “Wine by candlelight too.”
Several pillar candles huddled beside a large box of stick matches and a weather radio. A camping lantern and bottle of oil sat beside the candles. A pile of what looked like tool hangers lay in the center of the horizontal surface. Above the table a two-foot-square piece of Peg-Board waited for Sean to finish hammering in its supporting nails.
“You’ve made a huge difference from what I remember as a child, when Grandma forbade Paulette and me from stepping foot down here. But I’ve interrupted you.” Meredith moved back, preparing to leave the close confines. Even though the room had been transformed from a damp, dark space into a welcoming shelter, the walls weren’t far enough apart for her comfort. She took a deep breath and pushed it out. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“No need to hurry away on my account.” Sean hefted the hammer, tapping it against one palm. “Take a look around. You might oughta make sure you know where things are, just in case.”
Dread flowed down her spine at the idea of spending any length of time in the basement. The distant crack of thunder reminded her of why she’d be down here, and the dread deepened into a near panic. Darting a glance about the room in pseudo compliance with his suggestion, Meredith strode to the foot of the steps. “Come on, Griz. Let’s leave Sean to finish.”
Grizabella mewed as she joined Meredith, rubbing against her leg before trotting up the steps.
“You sure ’nuff have that cat trained.” Sean used the claw hammer to scratch an itch on his thigh.
“More likely vice versa.” Meredith started up the steps, amazed to be relieved to venture up and into the house despite the booming thunder and flashing lightning outside. She paused and looked back to where Sean’s shadow lay across the floor. Such a small area to have seating for eight. She shuddered and then called back to the handyman. “Thanks, Sean, for all your hard work, but I truly hope we never need to use it.”
__________
The early morning storm cleansed the air and left everything glistening when the sun appeared. Max turned off the ignition and sat staring at the old plantation home, seeing it as it might have looked in its prime. Antebellum homes spoke to something deep inside him. He liked all historic properties, truth be told, but he held a special fondness for those created during the flourishing times prior to the American Civil War. They reflected such optimism about the economy back then, about the future of this great country, and most tellingly about the people who worked and lived with hope for a prosperous lifestyle. Since that time, most homes no longer tried to be showcases, preferring practical styling and architectural features. Like what Meredith said she designed. The thought sent a shot of sadness through him, followed by a longing for the past elegance of homes. This plantation, having been the site of several military occupations and encampments by the Yankees, deserved to be safeguarded as a testimony to the history of Tennessee, let alone the country. He’d see to it if he had any chance of doing so. His appreciation for the past remained the primary reason he campaigned for countywide ordinances to preserve and protect the history of the county embodied by the old homes.
He slid from the truck and strode to the kitchen door, briefcase in hand. Meredith’s expression last evening had been difficult to read, but he sensed she withheld important information about her intentions. Call it a gut feeling or instinct, but she was up to something. Given he’d been the one to submit the National Register application on her grandmother’s behalf, he intended to ensure the property received its due.
He rapped on the door and waited, searching the expanse behind the house for any signs of the direction of her thoughts. All seemed as it had been. Stately magnolias and oaks stood watch over the house. The blooming azaleas and forsythia bushes punctuated the pastoral setting with highlights of red, orange, and yellow. He imagined the families who had occupied this home over the span of generations had spent a lot of time outside, enjoying the cool breeze and shade of the trees. Or at least, he would spend most of his time sitting in the gazebo with a good book and a glass of sweet tea or dozing in a hammock. Perhaps a loving wife and a brood of children working in the garden or playing ball in the yard. A sigh escaped. He’d welcome their interruption to his usual quiet solitude.
He turned at the sound of the door opening behind him. Meredith paused, briefly examining the screened door separating them, and then regarded him with wary attention.
“Max, what a surprise.”
“I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
“Depends. What do you want?” She held firm to the door, a physical barrier to his entrance.
He swallowed his demand to know her intent. He must tread carefully or he’d scare her plans underground. “Coffee? And a chat?”
He could appreciate her torso through the door, but her tension appeared in the angle of her head and the searching gaze she pinned on him. Those enchanting green eyes, flecked with gold, watched him, sizing him up. Despite her virtual hedgehog exterior, he needed to understand her. In fact, he wouldn’t mind spending more time with her. She was smart and attractive and alluring. But mostly she presented a puzzle he wanted to solve. After a moment she made up her mind and opened the door.
“I made some fresh joe.” She waited for him to walk inside and then closed the door behind him. “But we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“I’m sure we’ll think of something.” He dragged out a chair and sat down while she poured steaming coffee into two mugs.
She carried them to the table and sank into the chair opposite. Long fingers wrapped around the cup, nearly obscuring the fading picture of two young girls sitting on a porch swing holding rag dolls.
“Is that you and your sister?” Max drank his coffee, the hot liquid nearly burning his throat. He hoped when she revealed her next steps his backup move would be unnecessary.
“Where?”
Max nodded at the mug, and she unwrapped her hands to peer at it.
“Wow. I’d forgotten about that picture.” She shook her head and then gazed out the window for the span of two heartbeats before returning her attention to Max. “It was taken a long time ago.”
&nb
sp; “Where?” He stared at her mesmerizing eyes as they turned inward. So beautiful and yet so prickly. If she forced him to, he’d make her the test case for his proposed countywide ordinance. The one that prevented owners from making external changes to historic properties without prior approval.
“Out back on the old swing, the one we broke the next day because we pushed it to go too high.” A tiny smile appeared on her lips, a faraway look on her face.
“You were what, six?”
She focused on him, pressing her lips together before moistening them with a quick flick of her tongue. A surge of desire shot through him, catching him off guard. He shifted to a more comfortable position before taking another swallow of coffee. The tiny movements of her fingers as she cradled the mug had him envisioning other actions of those hands. She stirred sensations and longings in him he’d never felt for anyone else. Which figured, given her glacial attitude toward him. That seemed to be his luck with women. The ones he found intriguing and attractive found him the exact opposite.
“I was five. Like I said, it was a long time ago.” She covered the picture with her hands, and he had to force his eyes away from them to meet her gaze. “What did you really want to talk about? Not old photos, surely.”
“You. This place.” A different kind of longing filled him as he looked around the kitchen. He’d always wanted a fine home, but his resources were stretched too thin to bear such a treasure. Until he was promoted to senior partner at the law firm, which would happen once his proposed legislation to safeguard the county’s history came to fruition. “Have you decided what you’ll do with it?”
Her eyes chilled another degree, if that were possible. “Why do you care so much about what I do? What’s your interest in this whole affair?”
He shrugged lightly. “Your grandmother loved Twin Oaks and all it represented. I’m hoping you’ll honor her wishes.”
A gleam appeared in her eyes as a slight frown drew down her brows. “Her wish was for me to inherit it. I’ve not seen anything in writing that expounded on that in any way, so I have no clue what you mean.”
“Obviously, she wanted you to have it so you could keep it in the family. She knew you have the skills necessary to fix it up as it should be.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table as he snagged her gaze. “You’re going to keep it?”
“I told you before, I haven’t decided.”
“True, you did.” He regarded her for a long moment, taking a sip of coffee to keep his mouth occupied while he considered her guarded expression. What lay behind that pensive façade? “As you make your plans, it should be comforting to know that once the state commission approves the application, you won’t have to worry about any highway widening projects threatening to take or destroy Twin Oaks. They’ll have to steer clear of your property.”
“Maybe I’ll rent it out. Or perhaps I should sell it. I really don’t deserve it.”
The frown deepened as she let her gaze slide out the window. He followed her glance, noting the gravestones jutting above the wrought-iron fencing in the distant shadows of the magnolias. He’d stood beneath them the cloudy day they’d buried Mrs. O’Connell. He missed the little elderly woman, her spunk, her intense desire to keep her family heritage intact. She’d wanted nothing more than to ensure Twin Oaks continued to be an O’Connell family home. He’d been one of many who had formed the long funeral procession from the Roseville Funeral Home. State troopers had stopped traffic along the route, out of respect to the deceased as well as to allow the snaking line of cars and trucks to proceed unimpeded to the plantation. The very place Meredith contemplated selling.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
Those emerald gems focused on him once more. Her long fingers twirled the mug in her hands, a slow, precise spinning of the handle counterclockwise on the table. “It’s such a big place, one meant for a large family. Which you may have noticed I do not have.”
He wouldn’t let himself fantasize about those fingers surrounding anything else. Not for the moment. He needed to keep his wits about him.
He pushed the cold, empty mug out of his way. “Perhaps you should start your own family here then.”
She jerked back in her chair, crossed her arms, and glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”
Ah, he’d struck a nerve. Her body language spoke volumes about the defensiveness he’d sensed earlier. From what did she protect herself? “You don’t want to have a family?”
She scowled at him and flowed to her feet. “I have a lot of work to do, so if you’re done prying, I’ll ask you to leave now.”
“I haven’t finished.” He leaned back, assessing her expression. Testing her response like he would a witness in court. He’d wanted to know how she’d react to his questioning. Tense and unfriendly. But why?
“Yes, you have.” She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded at the mug he’d pushed aside.
Well, she had him there. He cocked a brow and grinned. “Could I have some more? You make great coffee.” At the sharp shake of her head, he effected a sigh and scraped back his chair. Some research seemed in order as to why she went from being a hedgehog to an irate porcupine. He’d learned all he could from her, apparently. Time to do some digging on his own. He nodded once. “If I’ve offended, please accept my apology.”
“Done.” She marched to the door, yanking it open. “Good day.”
“I’ll leave. But before I go, I want to say, we can agree on one thing. You and I both want what is right for Twin Oaks.” He paused at the threshold and drank in her pretty features along with the wariness in her expression. “Rest assured I’ll do all in my power to ensure Mrs. O’Connell’s vision for the plantation remains intact.”
“And what about my vision for it?” Meredith clung to the door with one hand and the opposite door frame with the other, preventing him from stepping back into the kitchen.
“As long as yours meshes with hers, we’ll get along fine.”
She blanched but didn’t back down from the challenge. “Thanks for the warning. If you don’t mind…” Her eyes sparked with resolve even as her expression closed.
“I don’t know what you’re planning, sweetheart…but I’m going to make sure you comply with your grandmother’s wishes.”
“You’ve done your job, Max.” Meredith started closing the door, narrowing his view of her lithe body. “She’d be proud of you. Take care.”
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. Roseville isn’t that big.”
Once back in his pickup, he considered the woman watching him through the screened door as he turned the key in the ignition. He needed to find out exactly what she hid from him. If that meant dogging her very footsteps, day after day, month after month, until he found the answer to that question, well, then he was the man for the job. He grinned to himself as he pulled out of the driveway. He owed that much to Mrs. O’Connell, whether Meredith liked it or not.
__________
Sunshine angled through the small windows of the attic, appearing almost smoky through the dust motes. Grizabella flinched each time Meredith swung the hammer and struck the screwdriver handle, its flat blade jolting the padlock hinge. She’d tried locating the key, with no success. How did that happen anyway? Were small keys like socks in the dryer, disappearing along with the hot air? She continued hammering with precision until the padlock finally sprang open. Dropping the tool beside the useless monkey wrench and crowbar, she grinned at the cat. She gripped the front corners of the trunk lid and paused, contemplating what might jump out at her.
“Finally I find out what the great secret is.” She considered the calico positioned to one side of where Meredith kneeled before the trunk. “Ready?”
Grizabella flicked her tail and hunkered down to watch Meredith lift the heavy metal lid.
As sunlight fell across the open trunk, Meredith froze. The box was crammed full of yellowed, handwritten letters, a set of matching leather-bound books, and
a three-inch vinyl binder labeled in elaborate typeface, O’CONNELL FAMILY TREE, brimming with sheets of paper. Curious, she picked up a packet of letters secured by a length of lace. Flipping through them, the dates reached as far back as the 1850s. She counted ten groups of letters, each measuring about three inches thick, spanning through the 1860s. Reading all of them would take ages, but her curiosity piqued when she noticed the set written between three O’Connells—two women and a man—shortly before and during the Civil War. Perhaps they were relatives sharing news of family. Her family, in fact.
Setting the letters aside, she lifted the binder out and carefully opened it so no pages escaped. Grandma O’Connell had apparently spent a great deal of time over the years pulling together genealogical research on the family. She’d identified their family back to when they immigrated to America prior to the Revolution. The concept of delving into the family tree, tracing the ancestral line, made Meredith’s skin crawl. Historical research was more Paulette’s gig, not hers. At least when her sister decided to focus and buckle down to work at anything. But no way would Meredith ask Paulette to apply her skills to the search. Not after their abortive dinner the night before.
Meredith looked at her grandmother’s beautiful script handwriting, which flowed across the page, prompting Meredith’s throat to close. Call her sentimental and perhaps a touch foolish. She held the very paper her grandmother had held years before. The sense of connection between them, their fingerprints layering upon the page, warmed her like a blanket. As she focused on the words, though, she grew more and more intrigued.
From her notes, Grandma had tirelessly searched for some reference to her husband’s grandfather’s sister. Grace Abigail had disappeared from the family records in 1862, though Grandma had hunted for decades to find some hint of her whereabouts. Grace’s sister, Edith, married a Confederate officer in late 1863 in Lexington, Kentucky. Interestingly, Grandpa’s great-grandfather, David Joseph, known as Joe, had also served in the Confederate Army as a soldier. According to Grandma’s notes, she’d discovered from the letters that when he came home after the war, he found Twin Oaks abandoned, though with every indication it had been the Union Army’s campsite during the fighting. The specific reference provided the evidence needed for Grandma’s application to list the plantation on the National Register.