The Show (Northwest Passage Book 3)

by John A. Heldt

  "It's getting colder. I should go back in," she said.

  Grace looked at John once more and again noted his thoughtful expression. She could see that he would never relent until she pushed him away. She could see that she should have pushed him away long ago. He deserved better and she needed to move on.

  The problem is that what had once seemed clear now seemed murky. She wasn't at all sure that she wanted him out of her life. She knew only that she needed time.

  "Thank you again for the book, John," Grace said. She squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Have a merry Christmas."

  When Grace returned to the living room, she returned to two kinds of warmth: warmth from a fire Alistair had started in his soapstone fireplace and warmth from the people who comprised her new family. Both provided immeasurable comfort to someone coming in from the cold.

  Grace put her coat on a rack, grabbed a glass of eggnog she had put on the mantle, and joined Edith and Lucy on the sofa. She made herself comfortable and directed her attention to the front of the room, where Penelope Green, wearing a frilly green dress and a red bow in her hair, raced between her mother and a Christmas tree that nearly touched a twelve-foot ceiling.

  "Mama, may I open one more present tonight?"

  "I suppose," Margaret said. "Have you opened the one from Grace?"

  "No," the girl said as her eyes lit up.

  "Well, if it's all right with Grace, then it's all right with me."

  "It's more than all right. I've been waiting for this moment."

  Grace walked to the tree and pulled a small box from a pile of gifts that had become larger each day that week. As she stepped away from the tree and approached the girl, she thought about the gift. She thought about what was inside the box, what she had wanted to put inside the box, and what she still wanted to write on the attached card.

  In a world where people could pass seamlessly from one time to the next, and back, Grace would have given Penny the doll from the Titanic. She could not imagine a more fitting way to please the girl, impress her father, and ingratiate herself into a family that had shown her nothing but kindness, compassion, and tolerance. But the doll was sitting atop a bedroom dresser in a house at 2321 Wenatchee Avenue in the decidedly inaccessible year of 2002.

  In a world without secrets, Grace would have attached a thank you card to the gift. She would have thanked Penelope Green Price for giving her a job and a place to live in 2000 and for being a friend and mentor at a time she needed both. But that, too, was a problem. Penny would have to settle for a thank you that Grace hoped to offer at a more appropriate age.

  "Here you go, Penny. This is for you," Grace said.

  She handed the girl the package and returned to the sofa.

  "Oh, look, Penny, there's a card. Why don't you read it?" Margaret asked. "Go ahead."

  Penny opened the card and read the message with the care and cadence of a girl three years into her public education.

  "To Penelope," she said. "This has always been dear to my heart. Let it always remind you that you can go anywhere in life if only you spread your wings. Merry Christmas! Love, Grace."

  Penny tore away the striped red paper and opened the package, which contained a colorful butterfly brooch. She smiled, gasped, and held the gift high.

  "It's a butterfly, Mama. It's a butterfly! Thank you, Grace."

  The girl ran across the room into Grace's arms.

  "Thank you," she repeated.

  "Well, let's not waste time with hugs. Let's see how it looks. May I pin it on you?"

  "Yes, you may," Penny said.

  Grace took the brooch and looked for a place to pin it on a dress that had almost as much frill as the Christmas tree. When she found a suitable spot, she affixed the brooch, gave the girl another look, and beamed.

  "Now, turn around so that everyone can see you."

  Penny did as instructed, spinning not once but twice. When Edith and Lucy clapped and expressed their approval, the girl bowed and curtsied.

  "That is a beautiful brooch, Grace. Wherever did you get it?" Margaret asked.

  "It was a graduation gift from a beloved aunt."

  Grace looked at Edith, who returned a puzzled expression, and then at Margaret and Alistair. Both smiled in a way that suggested that they understood that the beloved aunt was in the room.

  "It has always meant a lot to me, but I believe it will mean even more to Penny," Grace said. She looked at the girl. "I hope you will cherish it as I have."

  "Oh, I will. I will!"

  "I know you will."

  Grace leaned forward and gazed at the child more intently.

  "Penny?"

  "Yes."

  "I have one more gift for you," Grace said.

  "Oh, what is it? What is it? Please tell."

  "I'll do better than that. If you come here, I'll give it to you now."

  When the girl returned to the sofa, Grace stuck a hand in her dress pocket and pulled out a ring. It was the plastic butterfly ring she had brought into the past.

  "This is a little something extra from me. Butterflies seem to be the theme of the evening."

  Penny rushed toward Grace again for Hug Number Two.

  "Thank you. Thank you!"

  "You're more than welcome."

  Penny ran across the room to a large chair, where Alistair had watched the festivities from a distance. She showed her father her gifts, gave him a hug, and jumped on his lap.

  Grace loved watching Penelope in action. She loved the innocence and energy she radiated. Penny's unbridled joy reminded Grace of beautiful Christmases gone by. But it also reminded her of the Christmas she was missing eighty-four years into the future.

  Suddenly, other images filled her mind. She pictured chaos at the Palladium, desperate runs through the lobby, and men having heart attacks. Grace steeled herself for more unpleasant thoughts. This was the other side of Christmas, the moment she had dreaded for weeks.

  She pictured a husband trying to deal with her sudden disappearance, a husband who now had to raise two daughters alone. She missed them desperately and wondered if she would ever get over a separation that was as cold and cruel as it was inexplicable and seemingly permanent.

  The time traveler balled her fists as she thought about Ginny and Katie. Losing them was perhaps the greatest blow of all. What sinister forces would cleave a mother from her babies?

  Grace watched Penny dance in the middle of the living room and forced a smile. She wanted to remain upbeat for the girl. She wanted to help give her a Christmas she would remember until she was eighty-nine. But the happy faces in the room soon became too much.

  "Please excuse me," Grace said, mostly to Margaret. "I'm not feeling well all of a sudden. I think I'll call it a night."

  "Can I get you anything?" Margaret asked.

  "No, thank you. I think I just need some rest."

  Grace gave Penny a long hug and bid the rest of the family good night. She said she would see them bright and early for breakfast and be ready for church at ten. She grabbed her coat and exited the back door into the night, where a cold wind sent a chill through her body.

  When she returned to the guest residence, she changed into a nightgown and went through her usual bedtime routine. She washed her face, brushed her hair and teeth, and then took a long look at the woman in the mirror. What she saw surprised her. The woman still possessed the pleasant features that many called beautiful, but she looked older now – and sadder. Three months in this not-so-wonderful Wonderland had taken a toll.

  Grace turned off the room light, crawled into bed, and shivered. Even with abundant heat from a nearby radiator, a rarity in most rural houses, the place was cold.

  She stared at the ceiling for a moment and tried to purge unpleasant images from her mind. For weeks she had tried to compartmentalize her thoughts and focus on the present and the things she could change. For weeks she had succeeded.

  It was easy to think about other things when you kept busy.
But tonight the task proved difficult. Tonight she could think only of the life she'd once had and the things she couldn't change.

  When Grace determined that she could not sleep, she lit a candle on her nightstand and reached for her purse. The purse was lighter now than it had used to be, and arguably less useful, but it still contained the things that mattered most.

  She retrieved three photographs, looked at them closely, and kissed them lightly before blowing out the candle. She placed the photos on her chest and returned her eyes to the ceiling.

  "Merry Christmas, Joel," she said in a whisper. "Merry Christmas, girls."

  She placed a hand on her stomach.

  "Merry Christmas, little one."

  Satisfied that she had done all she could do on a difficult night, Grace Vandenberg Smith pushed the gloom aside and accentuated the positive. She thought of the days ahead, both good and bad, and vowed to make the most of them.

  She would make it, she thought. She would make it. She would beat the forces arrayed against her and make this new life work. She would start tomorrow and not let up until the frowning woman in the mirror could smile every day.

  Grace nodded gently and smiled to herself. She could feel the pain of the evening and the pain of the past three months begin to ebb. She felt better already, even chipper.

  She pulled the covers and settled in. Then she closed her eyes and cried.

  CHAPTER 52: GRACE

  Tuesday, December 31, 1918

  Few residents of King County had nicer homes than Alistair and Margaret Green, but one who did lived right next door. Robert Walker, founder and chief executive officer of the Walker, Patterson, and Jennings engineering firm, had a house that rivaled the finest Victorian mansions of Seattle – or even San Francisco.

  Composed of more than 10,000 white bricks, the two-story structure combined the best of Italianate and Gothic Revival architecture. It also had more amenities than many hotels, including electric lighting, modern plumbing, central heating, and furnishings fit for a king.

  Grace admired the French Impressionist art on the walls of the Walkers' large living room as she made her way through a crowd of more than a hundred guests to a couple she once knew as her parents. She arrived just as they appeared on the verge of an international incident.

  "Vous êtes un bel homme charmant, William Vandenberg," Lucy said. "Mais je vous trouverais plus beau et charmant si vous m'offririez un verre de vin."

  "You speak French?" Bill asked. He laughed heartily as he put down a stein of beer. "The surprises never cease. What did you just say?"

  Grace spoke before Lucy had a chance.

  "Lucy said you're a handsome, charming man. But she said you'd be more handsome and charming if you'd get her some wine."

  "Your wish is my command, Lucille," he said. "Would you care for some as well, Grace?"

  "No, thank you."

  Bill performed a slight bow and then disappeared into a crowd that seemed to get merrier and louder with each passing hour. Most enjoyed wine, beer, and spirits that had been difficult to obtain since Washington had passed its own prohibition law in 1914. Only those who imported liquor that had been manufactured out of state could legally serve it.

  "You never cease to amaze, Lucy. Where did you learn French?"

  "I learned it at the academy. It was my favorite subject. When I graduated, I could speak French like the Frenchies," Lucy said with a smug smile. "Where did you learn it?"

  "My mother taught me."

  "That's so nice," Lucy said. She looked at Grace more thoughtfully. "I wish Mama had lived to teach me things like that. Your mother must be a wonderful woman."

  "She was," Grace said. "I lost her a few years ago, along with my father. Mom was a wonderful woman in countless ways, including some that I have only recently discovered."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, for example, I learned only recently that my mother was quite a flirt as a teenager and a very inquisitive young woman."

  "I think that's the only way to be," Lucy said defiantly. "If you don't ask questions, how can you possibly learn?"

  "I agree."

  "I agree as well," Bill said as he approached from the side. "Here is your wine, Lucy."

  "Thank you, William."

  Grace laughed to herself as she was hit by a flashback, a pleasant one for once. She remembered how her mother called her father William only when she was particularly enamored with him. It was a habit she had apparently started early.

  "How are you doing this evening, Grace?" Bill asked.

  "I'm doing well, thank you. I'm enjoying myself."

  In fact, she was. For the first time in days, Grace had allowed herself to fully relax and enjoy the people around her. The only thing that tempered her increasingly buoyant mood was her condition. She was nearly three months pregnant and beginning to show.

  Grace wondered how many friends and acquaintances at the New Year's Eve party, including Bill Vandenberg, had noticed that she had put on weight in the past month. She planned to talk to the preacher about it at some point and probably some point soon. She suspected that her need for spiritual guidance would grow with her tummy.

  "That's good," Bill said.

  "I trust you're doing OK as well," Grace said. "Do you know where you will serve in the coming year?"

  "No. The synod has not yet issued its call. I expect that to change in January or February."

  Grace watched Lucy's eyes light up as Bill spoke. If it wasn't clear before, it was clear now. Lucy had no intention of staying in school. She had packed her bags – mentally, if not physically – and would follow this man to the ends of the earth.

  "Well, I have faith that you'll know soon. The church must surely recognize your potential. You'll make a fine minister wherever you go."

  "Thank you, Grace. That's kind."

  "Has anyone seen Edith tonight?" Grace asked. "It's past eleven and I haven't seen her since we left the house."

  "She's here all right," Lucy said. "She's flirting with one of Uncle's history students in the sunroom. It seems they have a common interest in the rabble-rouser Eugene Debs."

  "She does seem to like the progressive message."

  "Politics is a waste of time, if you ask me," Lucy said. "It's nothing but bickering. 'I'm right. You're wrong. Blah, blah, blah.' If people spent as much time loving and listening as they do fighting and arguing, the world would be a much better place."

  "What a lovely sentiment, Lucy," Bill said. "I like it."

  Lucy beamed.

  "I like it too," Grace said.

  She did like it. She was beginning to like everything that came out of her mother's mouth. Lucille Green had been one of the unexpected pleasures of her unexpected, and still disturbing, run through 1918. When Grace looked at Lucy, she saw a young woman full of optimism and vigor – one ready to take on the world at the side of a man already determined to do the same.

  Grace smiled as she thought of the joyous New Year's Eves she had spent with these two: the quiet family events in Africa, the noisier gatherings in Luzon, and the festive affairs in Nanking. She thought also of that cold New Year's Eve in Seattle in 1937, when she had sent her parents out of Edith's house to find a remedy for a stomachache and, in effect, had sent them to their deaths. She shuddered at the image of a drunk driver's blinding lights as Bill restarted the conversation and brought her back to the present.

  "Where's John?" Bill said. "I can't believe he's not at his own family's party."

  "He was here earlier, but he left to attend a reunion of Army veterans in Seattle. He wanted to see some of the men he served with. He should be back any moment."

  "How are things going with the two of you?"

  Grace pondered a question that was as loaded as the Big Bertha howitzers the Germans had used on the Allies in France. She didn't have a suitable answer and certainly didn't want to offer one that might create a wrong or harmful impression.

  "We're still in the getting acquainted stage,"
Grace said. She didn't add that she had seen much more of John than Bill had of Lucy. "I'd like to get to know him better."

  "Well, it looks like you'll get your opportunity," Bill said. "There he is now."

  Grace glanced over the heads of several people to a doorway, where she saw Captain John Walker place a coat on a rack. When he acknowledged her glance, she smiled and waved.

  "I think it's time for me to greet our host. It was nice seeing you again, Bill."

  "The pleasure was mine, Grace."

  Grace smiled at Lucy, put her hands on her shoulders, and leaned forward.

  "Be good," she whispered in her ear.

  Lucy blushed.

  Satisfied that she had given her mother all the advice a daughter could give, Grace Smith wandered through the well-heeled crowd and sought trouble of her own.

  When Grace reached John, she found a man with wet hair and a smile on his face. The miserable weather may have dampened his mane but not his spirits.

  "Did you get enough of the rain?" Grace asked with a laugh.

  "Let's just say I'm happy to be home," John said.

  "It's that bad?"

  "It's that bad."

  "Let me get you a drink then," Grace said.

  "No, thanks. I believe I've had enough excitement tonight driving the Red Brick Road. There are quite a few motorists out and about."

  "Then let me at least get you something to eat. You must be hungry."

  John smiled softly.

  "I'm fine, Grace," he said as he grabbed her hand. "The only thing I need to make my evening complete is your company. Let's go to the sunroom. We can talk there."

  John led her through the crowd in the living room to a long hallway and finally to a chamber that extended westward from the main structure. They entered the room, which featured more than a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows, just as Edith and her history student began to walk out.

  "Edith," Grace said as she flashed a mildly scolding smile.

  "Grace," a red-faced Edith replied as she led her new friend back to the party.

  John directed Grace to a settee that faced the windows and a host of potted plants that lined the perimeter of the twelve-by-twenty-foot room. He pulled two magazines from the richly upholstered piece and offered her a seat. Wind and rain pounded the glass and largely drowned out the voices drifting in from the living room.