Ivy stood over his crouched form.
“Do you doubt that?” His eyes were half accusing and half begging her to believe him.
“No.” Ivy’s whisper squeezed around the lump in her throat.
Joel drew his hand back from Andrew’s marker and stood. “I’ll never forget that day.”
Neither would Ivy. That spring day long ago when the three of them laughed and coaxed one another out onto the ice that covered Wilkes Pond. The moment the ice cracked and then gave way beneath Andrew’s feet, his six-foot frame, so strong and athletic, becoming helpless against the elements. Ivy could still hear herself screaming Andrew’s name, could still picture Joel sliding across the ice and launching to his belly, reaching for his friend Andrew. She had screamed at Joel to save her brother, waited for him to dive into the frigid water, to do what must be done to bring Andrew back to them. But Joel hadn’t. He’d remained sprawled on his stomach, arms plunged into the water toward Andrew. A horrific silence followed, a nothingness that would forever echo around the pond.
Ivy had slipped and slid across the ice in her own frantic dash to get to her brother. Joel vaulted to his feet, the ice continuing to crack beneath their weight as he wrapped his arms around her. Ivy wrestled against his grip; her screams filled the air. Dragging her away from where Andrew had disappeared, he saved her from dying along with her brother. But all these years later—Ivy clenched her teeth against the memory—all these years she had seen it so differently. Joel had kept her from saving Andrew, and Joel had left him in the pond to die.
“That night? Here? I wanted to be with you at the grave.” Joel’s words ripped into her past and present agony. But he hadn’t been here.
“Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you fight Mr. Casey?” She lifted her eyes to the man she had loved so fervently as a younger version of herself.
“Ivy,” Joel whispered and shook his head in regret. “Every time I left the orphanage at night to meet you and Andrew, I was never caught. We were free, Ivy.” He reached out and took her hands, tightening his grip. His calluses reminded her of his strength. The strength she’d so desperately needed the day of Andrew’s burial.
“So what changed? That night?” Ivy stared at their clasped hands, thinking how she’d wished they’d been able to grab hold of Andrew like this and pull him to safety.
“When we’d made plans to meet here, after the funeral, to say goodbye to Andrew together, Mr. Casey had already received word I was with you that afternoon. That I’d been on the ice and not helping the other boys cut wood for heating the orphanage. Mr. Casey stopped me that night, detained me. I couldn’t get away, Ivy. I couldn’t be with you.” Agony reflected in Joel’s face, the kind that must have eaten at his soul for years and left behind a pain he couldn’t verbalize.
“But you tried. . . .”
“You were worth the risk to me,” he said, searching her eyes. “You were always worth the risk to me.”
“Why did you leave?” Ivy asked, even though she knew the truth.
Joel gave a short laugh of disbelief. “I didn’t have a choice. Mr. Casey made sure I was on that train and it pulled out of the station without me jumping off.”
All night she had wept over her brother’s cold grave, shivering and waiting in the damp snow. In the morning, Ivy returned home only to be told by her father that Joel had left Oakwood.
“I hated you for leaving.” Ivy swallowed a shuddering breath.
Joel winced, the corners of his eyes squinting with hurt. “I know.”
“But you didn’t have a choice.” Resignation laced her voice. Ivy saw surprise flicker in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers gripped hers tighter. “I blamed you. I said it was your fault. I didn’t realize Mr. Casey was sending you away, that you were being shipped off to fend for yourself in Chicago. I didn’t know you’d tried to come to me, I just—assumed. I jumped to conclusions that you let Andrew die and that you were just selfish, that you didn’t care about us.”
About me.
“I’m so sorry.” Ivy leaned into Joel’s chest, her forehead against his shirtfront, the spicy smell of him warming her senses.
The ache—it never went away. No matter how much she’d hated Joel. No matter the silence, and even if his letter seeking reconciliation was lost, Ivy had buried herself with Andrew that night. She had ceased to live.
“Why did you write only one letter? Why not more? Hundreds of them, until I answered you?”
Joel sniffed and, even as his hands rose to cup her arms, looked beyond her to Andrew’s grave. “One letter with no answers? I couldn’t abide not hearing back from you. Wondering—no—knowing you hated me. The silence was your answer.”
“But I never received it,” Ivy argued.
Joel shrugged. “How was I to know that?”
“Why did you come home?” Ivy spoke into his chest, but Joel’s hand came up and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She looked up at him. “Besides needing resolution for yourself, why did you come home, really?”
“For you, Ivy. I came home for you.”
Chapter 32
Ivy sat opposite the Widow Bairns, balancing a teacup in her hands. The parlor was stifling hot, with the fire in the fireplace blazing to warm the spring chill from the older woman’s bones. Her father had wanted her to deliver the latest round of medicines to the widow’s home, but after her interlude with Joel at the cemetery, Ivy wanted only to escape to her room. She needed her journal, she needed to revisit the night of Andrew’s burial and to reconcile the anger she had harbored for so many years. But first, the Widow Bairns needed her medications. She hadn’t anticipated the elderly woman to be chatty and desiring company. She had Maggie, didn’t she? Her great-niece?
Ivy managed a wobbly smile as she lifted the teacup and sipped.
“. . . And so that’s what I did with that flower patch.” The widow smiled, her wrinkles deepening. Ivy had drifted away in her thoughts. Apparently, they were discussing gardens. She nodded.
“Mm-hmm.” Ivy tried to sound interested.
Widow Bairns raised her eyebrows. “More tea?”
Ivy glanced into her cup. It was almost full. “No, no. I’m fine, thank you. I must be on my way shortly.”
Widow Bairns snapped her fingers at Maggie, who sat unobtrusively in a corner chair. Maggie leaped to her feet.
“More tea for Miss Thorpe,” the widow demanded, not unkindly but with significant importance.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Ivy squelched a frown. The relationship between great-aunt and niece seemed odd. Formal. Too formal. More of a servant and mistress than old family.
Maggie lifted the teapot from its place on the table. Ivy offered her cup out of politeness. Reaching forward, Maggie began to fill the cup. Her sleeves stretched up her arms, revealing her wrists.
Ivy frowned. “Maggie, what happened?”
Bruises around Maggie’s wrists were faded and so pale, Ivy almost didn’t see them. Maggie set the teapot on the table and yanked down on her sleeves. “N-nothing, miss. I—”
Ivy didn’t miss the look she exchanged with the widow.
“She slipped and took a tumble a few weeks ago,” Widow Bairns interjected.
“I see.” Ivy sipped her tea out of pretense now, suspicion taking over. The markings were similar—no—identical to Gabriella’s. As if Maggie had been bound. No fall would result in bruising such as that. “My father would be willing to help, if you’re still in pain.”
“No, I’m quite well, thank you.” Maggie’s hands shook as she clasped them behind her back.
Ivy met Widow Bairns’s eyes. For an old woman, they were sharp and knowing. She narrowed them. Protective. The widow was protecting Maggie from something—or someone.
Another sip, another exchanged look with the widow and Ivy changed the topic strategically. “So, how do you enjoy living here in Oakwood with your aunt?”
Maggie plopped back onto her corner c
hair and twisted her hands in her apron. “It’s very nice.” There was a question in her eyes. They’d had a similar conversation before, Ivy knew, and repeating the former, rather introductory, questions was redundant. But she needed to watch Maggie’s reactions this time.
“And you came from . . . ?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Madison.”
Both Maggie and Widow Bairns spoke at the same time. Ivy raised an eyebrow at the contradiction. Maggie ducked her head, and the older woman pursed her lips.
“Maggie hails from Milwaukee but came by way of the Madison train station.”
“I see.” Ivy was suddenly thankful for her tea and the distraction of sipping it. That made absolutely no sense. The train didn’t route through Madison to get to Oakwood. “How long are you staying, Maggie?”
This time Maggie didn’t respond. Widow Bairns set her teacup on its saucer with a nervous clatter. “As long as she needs.”
Ivy glanced between the two women. As long as she needs? She frowned, then quickly softened her expression into something less direct. Staying with Widow Bairns or hiding at Widow Bairns’s? Ivy recounted the clues and ties to Foster Hill House. She remembered Mr. Casey’s description of the woman who had left baby Hallie at the orphanage, claiming parentage. There was no doubt Maggie fit the description, however generic and vague it was.
Another sip.
Silence.
The widow sniffed into her handkerchief.
Maggie played with her apron strings.
Ivy knew. Maggie had left the baby at the orphanage. Baby Hallie had to be Gabriella’s, which meant . . . Ivy met Maggie’s eyes once more, and this time the truth radiated from them whether Maggie wished it to or not. Maggie knew who Gabriella was, as well as the terrible secret Foster Hill House harbored.
She wanted to launch into a thousand questions, but she knew in an instant that Maggie would flee, taking the answers with her. No. It was best to leave it to Joel and Sheriff Dunst and feign a lack of interest. They would need to question Maggie, to find out what had happened and why Maggie had chosen to stay in Oakwood with Widow Bairns. Until then . . .
Ivy sipped her tea, now almost gone. “It’s delightful that you’re here, Maggie.” She mustered a warm, inviting smile intended to put the two women at ease. “Nothing is more wonderful than being surrounded by family.”
Maggie returned Ivy’s smile with hesitancy, and the widow’s shoulders relaxed under the crocheted shawl.
There was one more stop Ivy must make before she returned to her home to revisit her own tumultuous emotions. She must find Joel again, but for entirely different reasons than reconciliation.
Chapter 33
Kaine
We don’t have those records, ma’am.” Small eyes blinked back at Kaine through glasses at least a half inch thick. Kaine shot a glance at Grant. No. She would not accept another dead end. With Jason Fullgate behind bars, and Gabriella’s written prayers replaying in Kaine’s mind like a broken record of unseen hope, Kaine wanted to fight. Only this time for herself, not because she owed something to Danny.
Kaine rested her palms on the countertop at the County Records Office. The older woman blinked again, unyielding. “How do you not have the property records for a house that was the home of a founding family of Oakwood?”
The woman tipped her head to the side, and her glasses tilted. The red turtleneck she wore made Kaine’s neck claustrophobic. As if whoever was following her had their hands around Kaine’s throat and was squeezing.
“Well, there was a fire.” The records keeper was as intimidating and unreadable as Gandalf the wizard.
“Of course there was a fire,” Kaine said, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. Could she not catch a break? She turned to Grant, whose mouth was pulled into an ironic smile.
Grant leaned against the counter that separated them from the female Gandalf. “How far back do your records go?”
“Well . . .” The woman ran her finger around her turtleneck. Maybe she was tired of her clothes strangling her. “The last deed was filed in 1978 by the Davidson family. They owned Foster Hill House until the bank foreclosed nine years later. They weren’t able to resell the place. That’s why it’s been abandoned ever since.”
“Wonder of wonders.” Kaine turned her back to the woman, but Grant shot her a warning look.
“Your records only go back to the seventies?”
“No. They go as far back as the sixties. The fire burned down the courthouse in 1958 and took everything with it. But there’s no record of Foster Hill House between the sixties and 1978. It went abandoned for a time. It seems to be a thing with that house.”
“Then who sold the place to Kaine?” Grant reached for a pad of paper, and the woman handed him a pen.
“The city.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Oakwood took possession of it after the bank shut its doors in the nineties. Recession and all that, you know. Anyway, they put it on the market and it didn’t sell. The county just reviewed futile properties this year and decided to try again—short sale. Find someone impulsive and willing to mess with the place. The land was worth nothing to the county as it stood, and they couldn’t use it for bartering with anyone for property more conducive to road expansion or county buildings.”
“So Kaine purchased it from Oakwood.”
“Yes.”
Kaine grimaced. No wonder the sale had been so sketchy. Throw it online, have a realtor take amateur pictures of the rooms where repairs were more cosmetic, a few creative angles from the outside avoiding the worst sections, and voilà, a not-so-bad historical home. One an “impulsive” person would buy.
Grant set the pen down. His paper was blank. Kaine knew he was as frustrated as she was, only he showed it by jamming his hands in jeans pockets and heaving a huge sigh. “Well, I guess that’s that.”
The courthouse records keeper blinked. She blinked a lot. Kaine would have wanted to buy her some eye drops—if she’d liked her. Which she didn’t.
“You might try the museum,” the woman suggested. “Mr. Mason has much of Foster Hill House’s history recorded there. Not the deeds, mind you, but genealogies and the like.” She sniffed and glowered at Kaine. “It is a place of historical significance.”
“Then why didn’t Oakwood register it as a historical landmark?” Kaine couldn’t help one last question.
The woman raised a thin eyebrow and stared at Kaine from beneath half-lidded eyes. “I don’t know. Ask the city. No one likes Foster Hill House.”
“Thank you.” Grant offered a charming smile, and the woman’s eyes brightened. She returned the smile, and Kaine tried not to chuckle at the subtle flirtation from the older woman.
As they passed through the doorway onto the open street, Kaine leveled a look of derision on Grant. “A fire? Really. What more can happen in this town’s history? The place is a cesspool of circumstantial factors. I’m beginning to think there was some big cover-up.”
“Maybe there was.” Grant took her hand as they crossed the street toward his pickup. “It’s worth investigating.” Olive’s nose poked through the four-inch gap where they’d left the window rolled down. When Grant opened the driver’s-side door, the lab licked him in greeting.
Kaine pulled her hand from Grant’s and circled the truck, opening the door to climb up into the cab. She settled into the seat as Grant turned the key in the ignition.
“So.”
“So.”
They spoke in unison. Grant chuckled and reached for Kaine’s hand again. Kaine contemplated drawing back. She probably should, but she didn’t want to.
“All right.” Grant cleared his throat. “We have a few options.”
“Really? I only heard one. And have you seen that museum? The man doesn’t even own a desktop computer, let alone a tablet and digital archives.”
“Kaine, don’t give up hope. Remember Gabriella’s words? C’mon, hon.”
Grant’s endearment appeared to surprise him as much
as it did Kaine. He looked away and watched a white Suburban drive past them.
Kaine tried to relieve his discomfort by responding as if she hadn’t noticed. “I am hoping. I’m hoping to put this whole thing to bed and shut the door on it. Before I have to return to San Diego for the hearing against my husband’s killer, and before whatever nutcase here in Wisconsin decides to make good on his bloody handprints.”
Grant’s thumb moved back and forth over her fingers. Kaine didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.
“That call from the detective in San Diego didn’t bring you any resolution, did it?” Grant was too perceptive. That was the problem with collaborating with a psychologist.
“How could it? Not too many women can claim being stalked by two psychos in her lifetime.” Kaine turned her face to Olive, who nosed her from the back seat.
“Do you think this is somehow your fault, Kaine?”
She turned and stared out the window. The grocery store parking lot wasn’t much to look at, but it beat Grant’s discerning gaze.
“Kaine?”
He didn’t let up, did he?
“No. I mean, not the circumstances. But, the guilt. I pushed Danny away. All the time. I wasn’t the wife he needed. I feel as if I owe it to him, to live out his dream and fix up an old house and do the things he had on his bucket list, because he didn’t get a chance to. Because my job, which I was so dedicated to, cost him his life.”
Grant was so casual yet so strategic in how he dug into her emotions. It was unfair. She had no defense against him.
“You pushed him away because of your boyfriend in college?”
Kaine nodded. “Yeah. That. And also because I was always the one who had to take care of Leah after Mom died. Grandpa tried. He loved us. But he was old, you know? It was self-preservation, survival of the fittest. I had to be strong all the time. Put myself out there for Leah, for myself, even for Danny.”
“You’re the protector in your family. Like Ivy was.”
Kaine frowned. She didn’t see the correlation.
“Her memory book at the museum. The stories she logged of people whose lives she believed merited preservation. She protected their legacies. She empathized with them. She fought for Gabriella.”
The House on Foster Hill Page 22