The Spirit of Grace

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  He took my hand and led me up to the dunes, where we would be protected from the wind that whipped up around us. As we sat next to each other, Zeke put his arm around me, sheltering me from the wind.

  “About two years ago,” Zeke said, “a woman, who went by the name of Vicky Michaels, worked as a secretary at Hamilton Air Force Base. She ingratiated herself with the top-ranking men, and, before too long, she had access to so much information it doesn’t bear thinking about. It is believed she took photos of classified documents and passed them along to the German factions that are here in the United States.

  “A sting operation was set up in the hopes of catching her, but she had contacts who knew of the sting. On the day she was scheduled to be arrested, she disappeared. Then she resurfaced under the name Vivian Mason and took a job caring for an elderly lady, a Joyce Kensington, in San Francisco. The FBI was ready to sweep in and arrest her when she was allegedly killed, along with the elderly woman that she cared for, in a fire. We’ve reason to believe that Vivian didn’t die in the fire, but that a woman named Grace Kensington died in her stead. This Vivian Mason assumed the identity of Grace Kensington and is now here in Bennett Cove, married to your--” Zeke coughed. “--father.”

  “So who is Grace Kensington?” I asked.

  “Grace Kensington was a woman whose single motivation in life was to find her daughter. They were separated in a horrific train crash in December of 1919. Many people died in the resulting fire. The child was presumed dead, but Mrs. Kensington didn’t believe it. She swore her child was alive. It took her months to recover, and since she had no family, there was no one to inquire about the child’s welfare while Mrs. Kensington was in the hospital recovering from her injuries. After she got out of the hospital, she set out to find her daughter. It was pure bad luck that she crossed paths with Vivian Mason.”

  “That is a sad tale,” I said. “Did Mrs. Kensington find her daughter?”

  “She found her, but she never met her, at least while she was alive.” Zeke stared at me, as if calculating just how much he should tell me.

  I was tired of secrets. “What? Please tell me.”

  “I believe you’re Grace’s daughter.”

  “That’s absurd. I’m Jack and Jessica Bennett’s daughter. What a cruel thing to say.” I stood up and headed back to Bennett House. I sensed Zeke coming up behind me and broke into a run, but I wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed my arm, stopping me before I could get away from him.

  “Why would I say that if it wasn’t true? She came here looking for you, Sarah. She died. Your stepmother killed her.” He thrust the picture of Grace in front of me. “Just look at her. She looks exactly like you.”

  “That’s nonsense. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Zeke, I do. And I am even willing to believe that my stepmother is a murderer, But adopted? Me? I don’t think so.”

  “Sarah--”

  “If I was adopted, I would know. They would have told me.”

  I had taken the picture of Grace Kensington from Zeke. I studied it. He was right, there was a resemblance, but lots of unrelated people resembled each other.

  “Let’s not worry about that right now. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Please, don’t be angry at me.”

  “Truce. But you have to admit, it’s pretty farfetched.” Even as I uttered the words, the probability of the situation sank in. Zeke had nothing but supposition and a photo. He had no proof. “Could Vivian Mason have murdered Gran?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t have a motive to kill your grandmother. Why would she risk that? If Vivian Mason is a professional, which I believe she is, she would kill to save herself, no question about it. Your Gran may have caught her doing something illegal. Who knows?”

  “You think Gran found out who she was, discovered something about her?”

  “She could have. It’s no secret that your grandmother was more than a little inquisitive,” Zeke said.

  “She was Bennett Cove’s busybody in residence.”

  “You need to be very careful around Vivian Mason. She’s cunning and smart, and she must never know that we are onto her. I’ve put you in danger by telling you all this. She killed Grace Kensington, and she will kill you if you get in her way.”

  “If I ask you a question, will you answer me honestly?”

  “If I can.”

  I reminded him of the darkly clad figure I had followed up the mountain trail.

  “It was probably Vivian meeting a contact. Did you happen to see a license plate on the car?”

  “Couldn’t see it. Too dark.”

  Zeke took a deep breath. He stared out at the ocean for a minute. “Let’s get back to the house,” he said. “I need to make some phone calls. As for Vivian Mason, I’ll see that you’re not left alone with her. If things get difficult, we’ll move you to a safe location.”

  “What is the building on the beach? I know it’s top secret, but what is it?”

  “I’m not entirely certain but if I had to guess, I would say it’s an early warning radar station.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a way to track submarines and ships that venture near the coastline. The farmhouse is probably the power station. The barn is probably the ops building, but that is a secret, my love. You best keep clear of the area. You’re liable to get shot.”

  We walked back to the house, arm in arm, until we reached the redwood grove. Under the canopy of the ancient trees, Zeke kissed me once again before we walked back to the house, careful to keep a respectable distance between us. I wasn’t ready for anyone to know that I had fallen in love with Zeke. That was my secret. At least for now.

  Chapter 10

  Zeke’s suggestion that I had been adopted added more stress to an already intolerable situation. So I sought release in physical labor and succeeded in avoiding Zeke, my father, Grace, and everyone else for the rest of the day, as I worked on the most secluded side of the house, away from the road, the front door, and interruption. I channeled the anguish of Gran’s murder and Zeke’s earlier revelations into physical energy. The autumn chill hung heavy. Soon it would slip away, and winter would be upon us. After Zeke had taken the bulky wrap off my hand, I covered it with a sterile bandage and slipped my well-worn work gloves over that. Still wearing my heavy sweater, I spent the entire afternoon raking leaves and dead-heading my rose bushes. In the end, I had gone after them with too much zeal and trimmed them down to stubs.

  I worked in the garden for several hours, finishing as much of the work as I could without a ladder or a heavy saw. The gutters needed to be cleaned as well, another chore for my to-do list, but not one to be undertaken today.

  After I finished pruning, I got a can of white paint, added enough paint thinner to get the proper consistency, and spent another hour patching the peeling spots on the front of the house that were within my reach. The newest paint always looked a little different, but sea air was hard on wooden buildings. Patching the rough spots as they appeared was better than having to paint the whole house every five or six years. The sun dipped down over the horizon just as I finished, but I wasn’t ready to go indoors. Strapping on the leather tool belt from the shed, I headed to the front of the house to fix the shutter that hung on hinges so rusted they turned into orange powder when I tried to remove them. It didn’t take me long to replace them with spares and re-hang the shutter. I had the whole job completed in a matter of minutes.

  My twelve months at The Laurels had done little for my physical conditioning, so by the time the afternoon slipped into evening, the muscles in my arms and shoulders ached. I was tired in the pleasurable way that came from hard, physical labor. I stowed all my tools and headed indoors, longing for a bath and a good meal.

  I trudged up to the back porch, lost in my own thoughts, when a flash went off in my face, dazzling and disorienting me. A strange man with a camera and another with a notebook open, pencil at the ready, hurried up to me.

  “Miss Bennett, are you a suspe
ct in your grandmother’s murder?”

  I tried to move to the right, but the man with the notebook moved in cadence with me. I turned around. The man with the camera now stood behind me. They blocked my way into Bennett House. They wouldn’t leave me alone until they had what they came for, a story for the front page of the newspaper.

  “Miss Bennett,” the man with the camera said, “is it true that you’ve just left an institution for the feeble minded?”

  Another flash went off. I put my arm up to shield my eyes.

  The back door opened so hard that it slammed against the wall. Zeke burst through it. He came to a stop on the back step, his fists clenched at sides. When he saw the men around me, he seemed to fly toward us. In one fluid movement, he grabbed the camera and flipped it open, exposing the film.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The man moved toward Zeke. He threw a punch, but Zeke blocked it. The man reached for his camera, but Zeke, who was taller and quicker, held it just out of reach.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t break it.” Zeke handed the camera back to him. “Beat it.”

  The other man tried to shove his notebook in his pocket, but he fumbled when Zeke approached him and he dropped it. He put his fists up as if to fight, but when he faced Zeke and had an opportunity to size him up, he ran, leaving the notebook behind.

  “I’ll track both of you down and beat you senseless if any word about this woman shows up in your papers. Do you understand?” Zeke stood inches away from the cameraman’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” the man with the camera said. “I didn’t mean no harm.” He headed off after his friend.

  Zeke put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the house. He shut and locked the door behind me and drew the blinds in the kitchen. “Reporters have been calling all day.” He got me a glass of water and handed it to me. “Your father has called Hamish, although I don’t see what a lawyer can do about this mess.”

  “We went through this before, when my mother--when Jessica--fell down the stairs,” I said.

  “Freedom of the press is great for democracy, but it’s problematic when you are the subject of their stories.” Zeke stood near the window, peering through the blinds. “I was just about to come out and find you. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Hamish will fix it. He did last time, and it was much worse. I don’t care what they write about me,” I said.

  Zeke came over to me. I didn’t resist when he wrapped his arms around me.

  ***

  Anca, God bless her, had lit a fire in my room. The flickering flames cast their shadows against the wall, making my room warm and inviting. She had started a bath for me and added some soaking salts. Tomorrow I would pay for today’s physical exertion, but the bath would help.

  I had just taken off my dirty clothes, when she came in carrying a tray bearing fresh-sliced bread with homemade jam and a pot of tea. “You need a snack. You’re skin and bones. Eat something. Dinner will be at 8:00 tonight. Miss Grace says you are expected for drinks at 7:30.” She placed the tray on my dresser and followed me into the bathroom, where she placed the steaming mug of tea on the side of the tub. “What’s happened? You seem different.” She scrutinized me.

  “I had some interesting news today, Anca, but I promised not to tell anyone. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed. I had never kept anything from her before, and hated to do so now.

  “Never mind, you are stronger. That is good.”

  If only it were that simple.

  ***

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of rain pelting against my windows. Yet another storm had blown in during the night, giving credence to the weather reports in the newspaper. We were indeed having a rainy October. My muscles ached as I got out of bed, a painful protest to yesterday’s physical exertion. I opened my curtains and gazed at the rain. When Anca came into the room, she found me staring out my window.

  Together we made my bed, like we had done a thousand times before. I took a sheet out of the basket of clean linens and put it on top of my mattress. In perfect cadence, we tucked in the sheets and blankets, pulled the bedspread up, and fluffed up the pillows.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Miss Grace is having breakfast downstairs. I told her to save you some pancakes, but you’ll be eating by yourself this morning.”

  “Where’s my father?”

  “He is meeting with Mr. Hamish in his office and asked that we not disturb him,” Anca said. “Your father made a statement to the reporters. He is famous. They will do what he says.”

  “Anca, I can help you with chores today. I just have to do something this morning.”

  “No, dear, but thank you. You are kind to offer.” She gave me a wistful smile and slipped out of my room.

  I dressed without care in warm pants and a sweater, grabbed my father’s rain coat from the hook in the mud room, and headed out the front door, ignoring the rumble in my stomach.

  The cold rain had not let up during the short walk to Gran’s cottage. Once under the shelter of Gran’s porch, I took my raincoat off, shook the water out, and left it on the wicker chair to dry. I kicked off my muddy boots and tucked them under the chair where my coat lay.

  In my stocking feet, I let myself in the front door with the key that Gran kept hidden under a pot of ivy. I put the key in my trouser pocket and entered Gran’s house, despite Sheriff Carpenter’s admonishment.

  The house smelled dank and musty, even though it had only been shut up for a short while. I flipped the light switch in the entryway. Nothing.

  Gran’s electricity was as reliable as that of Bennett House--the first sign of inclement weather and out it went. I got the matches out of the desk and lit one of the many oil lamps that she kept handy.

  Someone--in all likelihood Sheriff Carpenter or his young deputy--had been here before me. The papers on top of Gran’s desk were no longer in the organized piles that reflected her fastidiousness. They had been rifled through and put back without care.

  The drawers had been searched and not closed all the way. Most of Gran’s books had been removed from the bookcase.

  Some had been tossed back on the shelves, some had been left on the floor.

  I went up the stairs to Gran’s bedroom. Her essence was so strong here that I needed to pause in the doorway for a moment before I could step inside. It was a timeless room, with a tiny bed set in a wooden bedstead. The floors were wide-planked heart pine, covered with a hundred years’ worth of wax. The walls were washed white. Lace curtains hung in the windows. The white cotton sheets and pink counterpane lay in disarray on top of the bed. Someone had rumpled them while searching between the mattresses, which were now crooked. What had they been looking for?

  The door to the wardrobe stood open, with all Gran’s clothes pushed to one side. Some of them had fallen off their hangers and had wound up in a disheveled pile at the bottom. Others had been tossed on the floor in front of the wardrobe, only to be trampled on by uncaring feet. An empty hat box sat on the bed, its lid on the floor. Next to it, the tin box that Gran had used to store my mother’s memorabilia had been upended, its contents scattered in a hapless pile and left on the floor. When I saw the pictures, old report cards, a box of baby teeth, a lock of my mother’s hair tied with a pink ribbon, my tears flowed unchecked. The realization that Gran was gone for good sank in and settled in my chest like a painful knot.

  So I went to work. I hung up Gran’s clothes, picked up the scattered contents which surrounded Gran’s bed, and didn’t stop working until everything in her room was back in place.

  Back downstairs, I opened the living room curtains, but the overcast day did little to brighten the interior of the house.

  I walked over to Gran’s desk, and was just about to sit down, when I noticed the tip of a white envelope sticking out from under the tiny rug upon which the desk sat. Just the tiniest tip of the envelope protruded. I pulled it out and set it on the desk, figuring that it had be
en kicked under the rug by the police when they tore the place apart during the frenzy after the discovery of Gran’s body. The envelope, addressed to my grandmother in very formal handwriting, had a return address in Maine. The envelope’s seal had been broken, so I knew Gran had read the letter.

  2 March 1942

  Dear Madame,

  My name is Grace Kensington, and although you do not know me, I am anxious to solicit your help. I have written to Mr. Bennett twice, but have yet to receive a response from him. The death of his wife, Jessica, has recently come to light. I am sorry for Mr. Bennett’s loss, and for yours; however, my situation is pressing and now I am looking to you for a solution.

  In December of 1919 my daughter and I were in a terrible train crash while en route to Maine from Canada. I nearly lost my life, and given that many perished in the accident, it was assumed that the babe in arms with whom I traveled was an unfortunate victim on that sad day. It took me the better part of two years to recover physically from the injuries I sustained in that crash, and although everyone involved in the accident told me otherwise, I always knew deep in my heart that my daughter was alive.

  I have spent countless hours tracking down my daughter, Sarah. I have no idea how my injured child came to be adopted by your family, but that does not matter. I am grateful for the love and kindness I am sure you have bestowed upon her.

  Now that Sarah Jane is an adult, and in all likelihood forging her own way in this troubled world, I would like to meet her. Do you think she would be amenable to that? I am en route to San Francisco to stay with an aunt as I write this letter. I have enclosed a picture of myself, the newspaper article discussing the accident (to confirm my story, should you have doubts), along with my aunt’s address.