Whispers of the Heart

by Stephanie Wilson

  As Erika’s softly clicked the top down on her computer, she imagined the look on Maime’s face if she could acquire those missing pieces. Then Maime would know Erika’s heart and understand what she meant to her. It was the least she could do for the only woman, outside of her own mother, who cared enough to break through her wall and become acquainted with the real Erika Crawford.

  Little did Erika know the shock waves she had just set in motion along a rainy street on London’s east bank an ocean length away. Shortly thereafter a detachment from Windsor Palace would arrive at that same museum to review the e-mail sent from America by one EBCrawford. After much research, it would be decided that contact with the individual was immediately necessary. It must be determined if the tureen was in fact authentic. Ownership, of course, must be scrutinized. This e-mail may in fact provide valuable information that could link missing members of a very important and notable British family. A family where a sizable fortune was at stake.

  Chapter Nine

  Erika was on the back porch when the banging sound finally reached her ears. Disgruntled at the interruption to her creative flow, she slowly wiped her oil stained fingers on a nearby cloth.

  “Coming,” she called.

  Opening the door Erika found Maime, breathing hard in her obvious haste. “Maime, my goodness, are you all right … is something wrong?”

  “No, no, child,” she exclaimed with her hand clutching her racing heart. Pushing the door wider, she made her way to the overstuffed couch. “I’m just an old lady who was just in the neighborhood for a chat.”

  “Oh, okay. I was just, uh, just rediscovering an old passion,” she said distractedly while checking the front of her sweatshirt for wayward paint that might stain the fabric of her now favorite chair.

  After exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, Maime, in one sentence, explained her rushed trip to the cottage.

  “I got a call from Tim today,” Maime said smugly.

  “Oh,” Erika breathed, catching her breath over the thrill her words brought.

  “And, how is he?” she asked tentatively, failing in her attempt to act mildly interested.

  “Oh, just fine. Busy, you know. But, he did have a message for you.”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine why,” Erika said while her cheeks revealed her pleasure.

  “Yes, well, since there is no telephone installed here, he couldn’t reach you himself. But he wanted to check up on you. To make sure that everything is goin’ okay. You know, him feelin’ responsible and all,” Maime said.

  “Well,” Erika responded somewhat deflated. “There is no need for him to worry. I’m perfectly capable ...” she paused trying to tame her rising temper. “That was kind of him to be concerned,” Erika said simply.

  “He also wanted to know if you would have dinner with him.”

  “What,” Erika exclaimed, color flooding her delicate face again, giving Maime all the pleasure she had come seeking. “That is just silly. He’s not even here.”

  “Well, he will be. Comin’ in tomorra at two o’clock at the airstrip. Fact, asked if you would be kind enough to pick him up since he left the truck at the Marina. I said you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll be there,” Erika promised.

  As Maime made her way back to the Marina an hour or so later, the melody that began in her heart had reached her lungs and was shared with all of North Idaho wilderness. Her boy was in love ... and the love was returned. Of course, neither of them recognized it yet. But they would. In a short time, they would. Maime would never know, however, how many obstacles and barriers would be strewn across their path. Barriers of mistrust and deceit that were even now being reinforced by circumstances without either T.J. or Erika the wiser.

  T.J. had been away for a week and Erika had accomplished many of her goals while he was gone. She had begun to paint again. Her second major in college had been art history. Painting was second nature to her. Erika’s innermost thoughts could only be expressed on canvas. Therefore, none had ever seen her best work, save her Uncle Lawrence. Not even Steve Caslin had seen more than a few frivolous samples.

  Though Erika desired to recreate patterns like the Hollyhock and Roses, her brush would soon create masterful recreations of the natural beauty surrounding her. From the pine covered mountains to the rippling waters, from the uniquely and aptly named Chimney Rock perched high above Granite Creek Bay to the rolling hills of Western Hemlock, Western Red cedar and Douglas Fir. And every painting captured the magnificent red, gold and orange hues from the Tamaracks and other deciduous trees. Often a singular rowboat would lie beached near a rocky creek giving the viewer an impression of a long and lazy afternoon fishing trip. Or sometimes Erika’s paintings would portray emotional colors of blue, red and sunset bronze. Had her Uncle Lawrence seen any of her early attempts, he would have known the healing had begun.

  The early mornings had become precious to Erika. She would trek through the mist of a Priest Lake morning, bundled in woolens, down to the marina and to Maime’s cottage beyond. It was on these mornings that she would gaze out over the still lake waters and envision Tim as a small boy. At times, she would visualize him skipping rocks across the bay or imagine him baiting a simple line and hook, determined to catch a Mackinaw Trout that would insure a trophy at the Priest Lake Fishing Derby. At other times, she remembered him behind the wheel of his woody Chris Craft boat with the wind whipping through his black hair and the faint sun on his face. Erika felt blessed to have experienced some of the life he loved so dearly.

  Maime and Erika’s cooking classes progressed quickly. Graduating from baking soda biscuits to simple techniques of baking chicken and finally to the complexity of creating fine sauces. It was during one of those sessions that Maime had gifted Erika with her most prized cookbook, a copy of Julia Child’s The Way To Cook. Erika was astounded at the kindness and adopted Maime right on the spot.

  Often during those early morning hours in the warmth of Maime’s kitchen when the aroma of the yeast from the bread they were kneading was just right, the conversation would turn to Tim. Erika learned much of his early life, of his love of family, his love of nature. Though she had known him for only a short while, she felt as though she had known him for a lifetime. It was during these times that Erika chided herself for feeling sorry that Tim hadn’t grown up with as many privileges as her. Though she knew his economic situation must be so different than hers, he had been raised with a rich life.

  It was precisely those thoughts that bounced around in Erika’s memory for the better part of the morning. But time passed quickly and finally morning broke into afternoon.

  At 1:45 that same afternoon, Erika found herself eagerly waiting for sight of Tim’s small single engine plane. Though an inner warning sounded, she immediately buried it. Sitting on the hood of the old beat-up truck, Erika crossed her arms tightly around the red jacket she wore. Just in the last day, she had noticed a tremendous drop in the day-time temperature. Could it really snow in October, she wondered? She hoped not because she was greatly anticipating the annual Harvest Festival that would be partially held outdoors and the Priest Lake Fishing Derby to follow.

  Suddenly she heard the dull roar of a plane in the far distance. As she eagerly waited, the noise grew loader and in a matter of minutes, the plane soared over the tops of the whispering pines. In her elation, she began to wave as the plane flew overhead, looped back and finally came in for landing on the narrow grassy airstrip. The side door flew open and before Erika could stop herself, she ran forward into the arms of the man who just a week and a few days prior had been a complete and unwelcome stranger.

  The light in Erika’s eyes kindled a warm fire within T.J. Her beauty was more breathtaking than he remembered. At that moment of realization … secrets hardly mattered. That she seemingly returned his affection surmounted any questions. As her slender arms flew around his tapered waist it sealed an emotion that would live forever in T.J.’s h
eart. An emotion of truly coming home. At that moment … it didn’t matter that their worlds were so different. It didn’t matter that she could never enter his world. In that space of time, in that place on earth, they belonged to each other. Nothing was more right than to wrap his arms tenderly around Erika and gently kiss each eyelid and finally the tip of her turned up nose. Erika hesitated and then relaxed, most likely coming to the same conclusion. Thoughts of the future … were for the future. Right now, all that mattered was … the moment.

  T.J. was home for most the week. After all, he hated to miss the Harvest Festival and would almost never miss the trophy Mackinaw Trout season or the Derby that would conclude that festive week. And, of course, he didn’t want to miss any more time away from Erika. He could accomplish the remainder of his work by telephone ... unless something unforeseen came up.

  Since T.J.’s return, the cooking lessons had been put on hold at Maime’s request. Erika’s painting continued, however, during the early morning hours before T.J.’s arrival at the cottage. There she would sit in the screened-in porch where the morning sun would stream through the windows highlighting the canvas where she so diligently worked. Coming to life was the image of a little boy sitting on the bank of a babbling brook waiting patiently for his catch. That the little boy resembled a younger version of the man who was coming to mean so much was deliberate.

  Early in the week the two spent one entire day fishing T.J.’s favorite river spot and to Erika’s delight caught several fish that he fried at a campfire later that night. Bundled in heavy quilts, Erika, T.J., Maime, and Papa sat close to the roaring fire, singing favorite jingles and camp songs and roasting marshmallows. Finally, wisdom prevailed and the group retired to the warmth of Maime’s huge stone fireplace.

  Maime and Papa chose the two armchairs, thus leaving only a tiny loveseat for Erika and T.J. He, of course, knew Maime had consciously chosen the seating arrangement. But he wouldn’t complain. Within the course of the evening their conversation would range from politics to philosophy to economics … to the general state of mankind. Erika was duly impressed with T.J.’s knowledge of the outside world. Having mostly grown up at the lake, she assumed his view would be much narrower than hers. It seemed, however, his knowledge rivaled hers. As was T.J.’s view of Erika, he was pleasantly surprised by her capacity to understand and see the big picture of life through an innocent and unspoiled lens.

  And so, their days continued. Every day they played hard and explored the lake’s hidden treasures and every night after Erika gently closed the cottage door to T.J.’s departing figure, she fell into a deep and satisfied slumber. Still, after all the time they had spent experiencing each other, becoming acquainted with the other’s soul, they knew very little about their respective lives. T.J. still assumed Erika was Marie Bancroft and she assumed he had been raised near the lake with a middle to lower middle class lifestyle.

  Finally, the day of the Harvest Festival dawned damp and foggy. Erika’s disappointment was obvious to every one around her. T.J., on the other hand, was elated. The weather almost insured a successful Fishing Derby. The fish, he knew from years of experience, were more apt to bite on days such as this. T.J. had won the Derby for the last five consecutive years, donating his prize money to Priest Lake’s museum. He really hoped someone else would win this year. In fact, he had a mind to see if Marie could win. How delighted she would be. And after all, his secret spot around the backside of Four Mile Island was unchallenged.

  The Festival was held annually in the newly constructed Coolin Community Center. Usually only the locals participated. The tourist season was officially over and those who lived at the lake felt they could reclaim the vicinity. It was truly a celebration for the North Idahoans. As T.J. swung open the freshly painted white wooden door, Erika was greeted to the sounds of a favorite Blue Grass jamboree band and shouts of laughter as dancers swirled their partners in the rhythm of the Two Step. A smile lit Erika’s eyes as neighbor upon neighbor slapped T.J. on the back with good-natured jibes about his being away too long. All, of course, were anxious to make the acquaintance of the woman he had brought to the Harvest Festival.

  One elderly man presented T.J. with a box of fudge made specifically for him in memory of a childhood experience where overindulgence of the confection resulted in hives and absence at the famed Derby that afternoon. T.J.’s good-natured smile diminished somewhat as the man joyfully recounted each moment of that long-ago day, so enjoying his story he was unaware the effect his fish and onion breath was having on T.J. and Erika. With a quick appreciative nod, T.J. and Erika moved along to greet yet another of his childhood friends.

  “Well, I’ll be, Mr. Morgan. You’ve been away just too long. I’ve been lookin for you for the last two weeks,” a middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses, was saying to T.J.

  “And why is that, Mrs. Neddleson?” T.J. asked politely.

  “Why because,” the woman said, drawing out her syllables dramatically. “We were short one judge in the jams and preserves category this year and I thought you would make just the perfect choice. Unfortunately, ... you were no where to be found,” she complained. And before T.J. could make a remark, Mrs. Neddleson continued.

  “Well, Timmy, don’t be impolite,” she said jabbing T.J. in the arm. “Introduce me to your ... girl friend.”

  “Mrs. Neddleson, I would like you to meet Marie Bancroft. She is staying at the cottage at Kootenai Bay near the Marina.”

  “Ohhh, so nice to meet you ... Marie.” And then after a moment of hesitation, “Why of course,” she exclaimed. “You are the Marie Bancroft who along with Maime Dooley entered Huckleberry jam this year.”

  Erika briefly winced after glancing at T.J.’s renewed interest in the banal conversation. “Well, yes I did. It was just something fun. We’re not expecting to win,” Erika explained.

  “Now I wish I had been a judge,” T.J. said humorously. “I would just love to sample that jam.”

  “Too late,” Erika responded a little too quickly.

  “Well, I would think your relationship to Maime would disqualify you as a judge anyway now that I think of it. However, ... I happen to know there is one unopened jar from their entry left. You may have it Mr. Morgan with the promise that you will participate next year,” Mrs. Neddleson warned before clicking her heels and heading toward one of this year’s unsuspecting judges.

  With a roll of her sapphire colored eyes, Erika confided to T.J. that Mrs. Neddleson was everything Maime had described her to be. At T.J.’s shout of laughter, he gently guided Erika through the crowded room toward the barn where all homemade products were displayed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I am very curious about the status of that jam of yours,” T.J. commented in Erika’s ear. “I want to have a really good look at it.”

  “Oh, let’s not. I’m too nervous,” Erika responded while trying to veer toward the display of cattle equipment and logging paraphernalia.

  “No, you don’t,” T.J. intercepted. “You have to face up to the stiff competition!”

  “But I don’t want to,” Erika wailed. “Please don’t tell anyone my name when we get to the booth,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to be embarrassed! I feel so sorry for Maime, I practically put her under duress to enter.”

  “Maime doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. She’s wanted to do this for a long time. It just took your persuasion. In fact, I can almost guarantee that we will find her standing next to your jars, lobbying the judges as we speak,” T.J. smiled proudly.

  Erika was amazed at the display of homemade wares. Having never attended a fair, the experience was beyond her imagination. T.J. quickly became amused at her continued exclamations of unbelief over the craftsmanship at almost every booth visited and would in fact utter her sentiment first, resulting in a brilliant smile from his companion. Erika was particularly interested in the brightly painted birdhouses, the intricately woven baskets, and the native sterling silver je
welry and terra cotta garden pots.

  “It’s truly a work of art,” she breathed to T.J. “And, oh my goodness,” she exclaimed while racing across the aisle to yet another display. “Tell me these are not hand-carved nativity figurines,” she demanded, pointing to a grouping of Holy figures ranging in size from three feet to a couple of inches. “I won’t believe it,” she cried. “They are too intricate. Look at the detail in Mary’s face and oh, my, look at Baby Jesus. This is incredible! This reminds me of a designer I ran across in Northern Italy last year,” she said running a slender hand through her loosened tendrils. “He was brilliant and commanded exorbitant prices for pieces no better than these. The work is very different yet so similar! Do you think someone from around here carved these?”

  “Marie, let me introduce you to one of the most ingenious craftsman I know and one who could rival any world-renowned designer, Harry Cunningham,” T.J. said while bringing Erika around to a makeshift work station behind the exhibit table.

  A seemingly decrepit elderly man slowly stood to face an unbelieving Erika. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in perhaps months, it was matted and gnarled. His clothes were rumpled and worn. His smell, however, was pleasant, smelling like freshly cut lumber and the outdoors. His craggy beard and deeply etched facial lines were a work of art unto themselves. Slowly, hesitantly, the man extended a wrinkled and work-worn hand whose twisted fingers revealed his slightly arthritic condition. Erika’s eyes finally met his. Though his body was old and worn, his eyes were clear and young. The softness and intelligence she read in those soft brown eyes confirmed what she already knew about his work … brilliant and inspired.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said meaningfully.

  “No,” he muttered in a voice rusty with disuse. “The pleasure is all mine. You are an incredibly beautiful woman. It is fitting that you are on the arm of such a fine young man.”