Legacies of Love: Six Seductive Stories to Steal Your Heart

by C. L. Roman

  We arrived at the center a few minutes later, and I put the car in park, glancing around the neighborhood while she riffled through her purse for something. I spotted a little drive-in burger joint just next door and pointed my thumb in that direction. “I’ll walk down there and grab a Coke or something, then wait for you back here.”

  Her lower lip puckered out, and she shook her head. “No, don’t you want to come in? I mean, you don’t want to miss seeing this… extraordinary—"She rolled her eyes for dramatic effect. “—collection of used toothpicks, do you?”

  “Honestly, I could skip the toothpicks. But for a spittoon, I might be willing to come in.”

  We both laughed, but when she pleaded again, I motioned with my hand. “Lead the way and I’ll follow.”

  Anywhere. I might just follow you anywhere.

  A single gentleman greeted us at the door, holding it open as Lacey and I walked inside. I gave him a nod of thanks and shook his hand before I looked up and all around at cases of miscellaneous artifacts and paintings that adorned a huge entryway. Without looking at him, I heard Horace Moreland, Curator of Collections, introduce himself and welcome us to the center. He gave what sounded like a rehearsed spiel about their mission, and so on, but I was distracted when from the corner of my eye, I spotted a gold bowl with handles. I nudged Lacey, and when she looked into the case and saw it, she giggled. The accompanying label read, “Spittoon.”

  Horace raised his chin and glared at us over his nose, and I raised one corner of my mouth in a cocky smile. When I slipped my hands into my pockets, my bravado slipped a little. I’d forgotten how much like a diesel mechanic I looked, dressed in Dickies with dark grease smudges on my knees. Still, I eyeballed the man’s slacks, dress shirt and tie, then stared him down without blinking.

  “Mrs. Bennington and Mrs. Foster are waiting for you in the conference room. Right this way.” When he turned his back on me, Lacey tossed me a wide-eyed glare and smacked my arm. Still, even though she was making a good show of reprimanding me, I couldn’t miss the glint of amusement in her eyes. When I winked at her, the pink in her cheeks brightened into splashes of red.

  Mrs. Lydia Bennington was surely one hundred years old if she was a day. The wrinkles on her face were folded in on each other so tightly that it was a wonder she could smile at all. But smile she did the moment she laid eyes on Lacey. She raised a hand, and when Lacey took it, she embraced her fingers close to her chest.

  “Oh, my dear, it is such a pleasure to finally meet you,” the older woman said, then flicked her free hand to nudge Lacey close so that she could kiss her cheek. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “Well, I’m really sorry I’m so much later than we’d planned. My car broke down, and I had to hitch a ride. Oh, speaking of, this is Luke Rodin. He was nice enough to drive me here from Simoneaux Bayou.”

  “What in the world were you doing down by the beach?” The woman who’d spoken was younger than Mrs. Bennington probably by a few decades, but her severe frown made her look nearly as ancient. It was clear by the expression that she didn’t like Lacey and didn’t like us being there. Hell, maybe she didn’t like life in general.

  It took all of two seconds for me to decide I didn’t like her either.

  “Renee, would you run fetch me some tea or coffee?” Mrs. Bennington said, waving her hand over her shoulder but not taking her eyes off Lacey. The other woman, who I could only presume was an assistant or employee of some sort, sniffed and narrowed her eyes at us as she inclined her head and left the room. Horace Moreland hesitated a moment, but he too turned on his heels and exited.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bennington,” I said with a smile as I started to back away.

  “Oh, please, please, Mr. Rodin. There’s no need for you to leave. Now that the stuffpots have gone, we’ll have more room to breathe easier, eh?”

  My eyes widened, then Lacey looked back at me with a beaming grin and mouthed “stuffpots?” Both of us chuckled before taking seats beside the old woman. I hadn’t realized at first, but she was sitting in a wheelchair, her frail little body tucked in so tight she almost didn’t have a neck. Her hair was silver, but perfectly coiffed, and she had enormous green jewels on her ears and dangling from a chain around her neck.

  “So, dear, do you have your family history with you?” She looked at Lacey, leaning forward when she pulled a folder out of her enormous bag. Mrs. Bennington started to take it, then looked up directly at me. “You know, it would be a shame if they came back too soon, wouldn’t it?”

  I was slightly slow on the uptake, but after a pause, I realized her meaning and stood up to close the door to the conference room. I thought about locking it too, just so Mrs. Bennington and Lacey could be undisturbed, but I wouldn’t have put it past Mrs. Foster and Horace to be crazy enough to call the cops just because.

  I returned to my seat and glanced at the papers that Lacey was showing to Mrs. Bennington.

  “Yes, I did find that name,” Lacey was telling the woman, pointing at one of the pages. “See, right here. Franz Müller. Apparently, that was his name before. That’s what I contacted the historical society about. My family never even knew about that. When he became a citizen in 1959, he changed it to Frank Miller. And then . . .” She slid the citizenship documents into Mrs. Bennington’s trembling hands. “He married Madelyn Parker, and they had two children, but he died when my grandfather was just two years old. Great Gram P married again, a man named Marc Wiseman. He was really the only father my grandpa knew since he was so young.”

  “I see. Remarkable. How did he die? Your great-grandfather?”

  I sat back patiently, just watching their interaction but equally fascinated by the story and by the bright light of excitement in Lacey’s eyes. I wasn’t sure if she noticed it, but Mrs. Bennington’s face was slightly ashen as if she had some emotional investment in Lacey’s ancestral roots.

  “Lung cancer. He was really young, too. Only in his 40s.”

  Lydia Bennington gave a forced smile. “There weren’t really many treatments available in those days. And he loved his cigarettes.”

  Lacey blinked, her head tilting to the side. “Mrs. Bennington? Did you know him?”

  “It’s really too bad you didn’t know him, dear. He was a very kind man. And I was only a little girl at the time, but I often fancied myself in love with him.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lacey

  Of all the things I’d expected, finding someone who actually knew my great-grandfather wasn’t one of them. I mentally calculated the chances. If he were still alive, Frank Miller/Franz Müller would be in his eighties. And he’d been dead for longer than I’d been alive. Even Great Gram P was gone now.

  “Please.” I reached across the table and put my hand atop Mrs. Bennington’s bony fingers. “Tell me about him.”

  “Ahem.” Luke cleared his throat, and I looked at him in question. He motioned with his head towards the door, and I heard the latch turn just before Horace Moreland backed into the room. I snatched my hand back and placed it in my lap, almost as if I’d done something wrong. I wasn’t stupid. It was clear to me that both Mrs. Foster and Mr. Moreland didn’t think much of my being here.

  The curator pulled a large cart into the room, and my interest was instantly peeked. There were two gray boxes on the cart, their contents hidden from view. Either I was about to be terribly disappointed by a collection of spent toothpicks, or I was going to be wowed by something phenomenal. My skin tingled with excitement, and deep down I knew something big was about to happen.

  “Please put these on.” Horace handed a pair of white gloves to me, and I dutifully put them on my hands. Once he had a pair on as well, the man carefully pulled the lid off one of the boxes and began removing items one by one, handling them with the utmost care.

  I felt movement to my right but couldn’t quite tear my eyes away from them as Luke moved in closer and leaned into the table to look, too. Mr. Moreland unwrapped e
ach object from its paper protection, then put it on the table.

  “Doll furniture,” I breathed, putting out my hand to touch a little miniature cupboard but thinking better of it and shrinking back in awe. “But look at how intricate they are.” I glanced over my shoulder at Luke, and he nodded in agreement. “There are drawers and little rolltop nooks. This is amazing.”

  “There’s more,” Mrs. Bennington murmured, sitting back to accept the cup of tea Mrs. Foster was just bringing into the room.

  And she was right. Horace removed dozens of little wooden items, most of them tiny pieces of doll furniture, but also a few other miscellaneous toys. There was a little horse on rails that rocked back and forth. A disk with ornate carvings of a train and a tunneled mountain that swiveled over the top giving the illusion that the locomotive was traveling in a circle.

  “He was an artist,” Luke noted, pointing to the elaborate markings carved into some of the wood.

  “Yes, indeed. He made these for me and my brother when we were just little tykes. We played with them often. As did my own children, didn’t you, Renee? And the grandchildren.”

  “We did, yes. They did.”

  Luke leaned in to whisper to me, “I thought she was a servant or something.”

  I grinned but otherwise didn’t respond to him. Instead, I turned my attention back to Mrs. Bennington. “So these were passed down in your family? Heirlooms?”

  She nodded, setting her mug aside and threading her fingers together in a steeple in front of her chest. “Until the great-grandkids arrived. So many fancy new-fangled gadgets to play with. They wouldn’t appreciate them. So, I decided to put them on display here.”

  “Then he was a craftsman? I had no idea. Our records showed he was a storekeeper. He and Gram P owned a little feed store in Mexia, Texas.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know all of the story yet. Do you know anything about him before he immigrated?”

  I shrugged, moving my head side to side. “Nothing. I’ve written for records but haven’t received them yet.”

  “Franz Müller was a prisoner of war in Jennings. That was in 1943.”

  “Oh my God!” I breathed, putting my hand to my mouth. I’d read about German prisoners on US soil, but I hadn’t ever considered that my great-grandfather might have been one of them.

  “My father used to bring in some of the prisoners to work for us. Times were hard then, and we didn’t have much. But most days during harvest time, he would drive out to Jennings and pick up several of the men. They were mostly polite fellows. There were never even any guards.”

  “No guards?” Luke asked, whistling in astonishment.

  “It wasn’t altogether uncommon,” Horace noted as he picked up one of the toys and admired it. “Many of the prisoners worked throughout the state but even without guards, they rarely fraternized. Especially since many couldn’t speak English.”

  “Daddy always said he thought most of those men were glad to be out of the war. The privations they suffered over there were terrible, so they certainly weren’t going to do anything to get into trouble once they were here.”

  “And you met him on your family farm then?”

  Mrs. Bennington nodded. “I wasn’t supposed to. Mama didn’t like it at all that they were there. Daddy was in the war, too. He came back missing the use of his right eye, and she never could forgive them. But Daddy needed the workers, and he treated them well. I used to ride with him back and forth to Jennings. Mr. Franz, as I called him, had nice eyes. And I liked his smile. He was very young, really. Virtually a boy, Daddy said.”

  “But how remarkable, that he made you these.”

  “It started as a thank you to our family for the work. He appreciated being useful, not simply sitting in the camp. Then later, when I’d developed my school-girl crush, I discovered he loved my father’s brand of cigarettes. So, I would sneak him one or two when Daddy wasn’t looking.”

  Once again, Horace piped in, adding historical narrative, “They were here even after the end of the war because it took time to repatriate them to Germany.”

  “And so, he made these little gifts.” Mrs. Bennington picked up a wooden set of scales with tiny miniature weights in them. “He said I reminded him of his little sister. And these are a little replica of their family’s shop.”

  “You said most of them didn’t speak English.” I looked at the curator a second before turning back to Mrs. Bennington. “But he learned.”

  “He actually knew a lot of English when he got here,” she replied. “I don’t know how exactly. I thought his accent was so funny.”

  Flashes of the little girl she must have been appeared in the old woman’s visage. She clearly had an affection for the POW she’d known as a child.

  “I was so heartbroken when he went back to Germany. I was only nine years old, but I packed my bags and begged Daddy to let us move there with him.”

  I finally worked up the courage to pick up one of the toys, amazed when a little tug on the knob opened the drawer as if it were a full-scale piece. My mind wandered to days gone by and a little girl receiving these little presents from a soldier so far from home. After I’d delicately inspected the ones on the table, I finally leaned back and smiled at Mrs. Bennington.

  “But you left a note with the historical society that you wanted these returned to the family. How could you know he would ever come back to America?”

  “Oh, I didn’t.” She shook her head. “I always hoped maybe his family in Germany might start looking for information about him. Or maybe even that he would seek me out. Long after I’d grown out of that school-girl crush, I still had dreams he’d look for me. I didn’t find out until I was married and had children of my own that he’d contacted my father long after his repatriation. Daddy had sent him a care package once. About thirty years ago, I made some inquiries, thinking I might locate him, but it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Technology wasn’t what it is today.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I breathed, pulling off my gloves and putting my fingers to my heated cheeks. “I’m so overwhelmed. I never really expected a story so rich and fascinating.”

  “There are documents.” Mrs. Bennington snapped her fingers at Mr. Moreland, and he immediately retrieved a folder containing files then handed them over to me,. “I had Mr. Moreland make copies for you. And he’ll package all of these up for you to take home. I’m sure your family will cherish them.”

  “Yes, of course,” Horace said, expression pinched. “I’ll just pack these up, and get the paperwork Mrs. Bennington must sign to release them.”

  Chapter Eight

  Luke

  I could clearly see that Horace Moreland was virtually heartbroken by the prospect of losing the items Mrs. Bennington had put on loan with the historical society. His head drooped down, and his shoulder slumped, but he dutifully began wrapping up the little artifacts back into their protective papers.

  “Wait, Mr. Moreland.” Lacey looked at Mrs. Bennington with a kind smile. “I really appreciate your wish to put these back into the family’s hands. I know my mom and brother are going to be absolutely fascinated. But I really have no idea how to take care of them, and I have uncles and aunts who might be interested in them, too.”

  “What are you saying, dear?”

  “Well.” Lacey turned her brown eyes up to the curator. “Haven’t these been on display?”

  He swallowed and inclined his head. “We have an exhibit. They’ve been the centerpiece, actually, for an exhibit downtown this year.”

  “I think.” She sniffed a little laugh. “Really, I’d like to think Franz would like the idea of people coming to see his beautiful gifts.”

  “Don’t feel pressured to leave them, Lacey.” Mrs. Bennington grasped her hand, and I could almost imagine how cold the old lady’s fingers probably felt. “Truly, they belong to your family.”

  I held my breath, wondering what Lacey would do. It seemed evident that Mrs. Bennington’s daughter
and the curator wanted nothing more than to have the items remain with the society. I wasn’t sure what dog Mrs. Foster had in the fight, but I didn’t like her or Horace Moreland even a little bit. That in and of itself had me hoping Lacey would pack up the boxes and hand them over to me to haul back to Simoneaux Bayou.

  But when I saw the expression on her face, a mixture of excitement and serenity, I knew that wasn’t what she would do.

  “No, I think… part of me thinks removing them from this place is premature. So, for now, I’m going to leave them in Mr. Moreland’s competent hands.”

  “Miss Miller, the society truly will take very good care of them. Until you decide to retrieve them.”

  “I’ll agree on one condition,” Mrs. Bennington said, her voice suddenly strengthening to one of absolute authority. “I intend to transfer their ownership to Miss Miller, regardless. And she can execute new loan documents to keep them here.”

  Lacey’s grin nearly split her face. “Agreed. But before you pack them up, Mr. Moreland—” She put her hand out to stop him. “—I’d like something to take home to show the family. Something small.” Her eyes turned back to Mrs. Bennington. “What do you think?”

  “Ah.” The old woman pointed to a little box decorated with bird carvings, then flicked her hand to indicate it should be passed to her. When she had it in her hands, she pushed one of the wings and a little secret door popped open from the bottom. Inside was a small greyish-blue stone that had been polished and shaped into a little heart. “I think this will do.”

  As if reaching for a priceless piece of china, Lacey took the box and held it to her chest. “Yes, I think this will be perfect.”

  I drew everyone’s attention when I spoke up. “Maybe Mr. Moreland could spare a smaller box so we can carry it back with us.”

  “Oh!” The man leaped to attention. “Of course I will. I’ll be right back with some acid-free packing paper and a box. And the paperwork for the loan transfer.”