The Spirit of Grace

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  When I got close to the desk, she wiped her forearm across it, sweeping the papers back into the strong box, closed the lid, and put the box back into the drawer from which she had taken it.

  “I could ask you the same thing. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” I held up my book. “Getting a book from the library isn’t the same as snooping through my father’s desk.”

  “You’ve found out, haven’t you? That you’re adopted--” Her voice trailed off as she looked at me expectantly.

  She bent her head, as if she were in prayer. Her dark hair fell away from the back of her neck, revealing the alabaster skin and the subtle outline of the vertebrae there. She raised her head and took a deep breath before she spoke. “I need to speak to you, Sarah. I’ve been keeping the truth from you and Jack. Now that your grandmother’s been--I’m sorry. This is so awful.”

  She massaged her forehead with her fingers and sighed. I had to give credit where due. This woman was a master. If I hadn’t known that my stepmother was a ruthless murderer, I would have believed her without question.

  “I’m not really Grace Kensington. I have lied to everyone and now I’m headed for big trouble.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “God, it’s freezing in here.”

  I wanted to jump over the desk, pick her up by the scruff of her neck, and shake her until she confessed to Grace Kensington’s--my real mother’s--murder. By the grace of God, I didn’t.

  “Before I came here, I was married to a man who drank to excess and beat me for sport. He spent most of his time at the bars--thank goodness--but he would get liquored up and come home to me. When we were first married, his abuse was limited to an occasional slap across the face. As time went on, the slap across the face became an open handed hit to the jaw, which became a push to the floor, then kicks while I was down. The progression was self-evident.

  Before I left, the beatings had become so severe I knew it was only a matter of time before he would kill me. So I decided to leave. I secured a job in a different town and fled in the night with the clothes on my back. I made a clean getaway and assumed the idiot would wake up the next morning, find me gone, and maybe find some other woman to terrorize.

  “I became a companion and caregiver to a dear old soul named Joyce Kensington--your great aunt--in San Francisco. She provided room and board and a small salary. She was kind and easy to work for. We got along well, and I was fond of her. It wasn’t too long after I started working for her that her great-niece, Grace Kensington, came to visit from Maine. Turns out Grace had a long-lost daughter whom she had tracked down to San Francisco.”

  The blood pounded in my ears. I grabbed the back of the chair by Zeke’s desk for support.

  “For a while, everything was fine. I let myself believe I had gotten away from Tom for good. Life went on, it was boring, but I was safe and somewhat content. One day as I was changing the sheets for Miss Joyce, I happened to look out the window. There, at the edge of her property, stood Tom. I could tell by the look on his face that he meant to kill me. I didn’t know what to do. If I called the police, they would in all likelihood send me home with my abusive husband. I decided to at least tell Miss Joyce about him. I owed her that much. I would collect my things, leave, and let things unfold as they would. But when I went inside, Joyce asked me to go to the store on an errand. And I formulated a plan.

  “I managed to pull the car out of the garage and drive to the store, where I used a public phone to call the police and report a burglar at Joyce’s house. I waited long enough for the police to arrive and escort Tom off the property, but when I arrived back at Joyce’s, the house was in flames. Your mother and her aunt--your great aunt--were in it.” She rubbed her eyes, as if to block out the imagery. “It was awful. I couldn’t get to them. I swear, I tried, but the heat of the fire, the smoke, it was impossible to save them.

  “The fire department came. There were police cars everywhere. I told the authorities that I was Grace Kensington. I knew enough about your mother’s past to lie, and no one found out. My passport was replaced, and I came here. I figured this was where your mother was headed, that maybe I owed it to her to see you, to make sure you were okay. It was pure coincidence that your father--Jack Bennett--and I met and fell in love.”

  “But my mother is older than you. Didn’t anyone question the age difference? You don’t look anything like her. Surely they would check the picture.” My voice held the appropriate shock and mortification that it should have held, had I believed Grace’s story and been surprised at it, but I didn’t believe her. Not one word. Not for one minute.

  “Apparently not, or I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  I couldn’t believe she could make up such a scenario, and I was once again surprised at her cleverness. “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I’m going to tell Jack tomorrow. I owe him the truth. After that, I will speak to Sheriff Carpenter. But I wanted to tell you first. It seemed the decent thing to do. There’s something else, Sarah.”

  I waited for her to continue.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at Zeke, seen the stolen kisses.”

  “I--”

  “Don’t bother trying to deny it. It’s obvious you are in love with him, and he’s in love with you, but he probably gave you some story about how he’s not available because his soul is tortured. Ah, I can see, by the look in your eyes, that’s exactly what happened. Have you ever wondered what he’s doing here? It’s quite evident he has no aptitude for copy editing or research. He makes appointments and keeps Jack’s calendar, but anyone could do that, even you. Jack tolerates him because he has a kind heart. Did you know Zeke speaks German? Have you considered that he’s the spy? He may have murdered your grandmother. I just don’t want you blindsided. I know you don’t like me, but I am offering you this advice.”

  “Thanks for your concern, but there’s nothing between Zeke and me. I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

  “Okay,” Vivian said. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Oh, I can see I’ve made you angry. I’m sorry. I thought you’d resigned yourself to being a spinster.”

  “Tell my father who you are, or I will,” I said, unable to resist the urge to get the last word in.

  I retrieved the shotgun I had leaned against the wall. Rather than putting it back by the front door, I took it to my room with me. ‘I thought you’d resigned yourself to being a spinster.’ Vivian’s words rang in my ears as I climbed the stairs. Once in my room, I locked my door and put the shotgun on the floor under my bed. I tried to sleep, but Vivian’s story, her accusations against Zeke made my blood boil.

  Spinster indeed.

  Chapter 13

  I awoke the next morning to the sounds of Anca and Vivian Mason screaming at each other downstairs. Quiet, sweet tempered Anca shouted at Vivian in her native tongue. Vivian yelled back, her voice shrill and becoming louder by the minute.

  The clock next to my bed said 10:00 a.m. My head ached. I threw on clothes and headed downstairs, not caring what my hair looked like or that I hadn’t even washed my face. With any luck, I could break up their fight before it got out of hand.

  They faced each other in the foyer. Anca had her arms crossed over her bosom, her hip thrust out to the side, and a determined look on her face that I found somewhat frightening as I had never seen it before. The basket of linens sat on the floor by her feet. My stepmother wore a navy dress, complete with matching shoes. On the foyer table lay a hat, her handbag, and the white gloves she would need if she were going to the city. Her arms were rigid at her sides, her hands clenched in tight fists. Neither one of them noticed me as I walked down the stairs.

  “You work for this family, you work for me. I’ve asked you twenty times to dust the bookcases in Jack’s office. Twenty times. They are filthy. I have asked you to sweep the floor in the larder. You have not done it.”

  “I have been cleaning this house for twenty years.” Anca spoke
English now. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

  I stood at the bottom of the staircase waiting for an opening, an opportunity to jump into the fray.

  “I’ve asked you to rearrange the bowls and cutlery in the kitchen, but you haven’t done it. I’ve asked you to straighten my closet. You haven’t done it.” My stepmother looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve had it with you, Anca. You clearly have been spoiled and have forgotten your place in this family. I’m not going to stand here and argue with a servant.”

  “I too have had enough. I quit. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “No,” I said, “Anca, please--”

  “Sarah, you’re part of the problem. You treat her like she’s family. She’s a servant, for heaven’s sakes.”

  “She is part of the family, and she’s not quitting.” I walked over to Anca and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you, dear? You’re not going to leave us because of a simple misunderstanding, are you?”

  “It’s no use.” Anca shook her head. “She is not a great lady, like Sarah, like her mother, Jessica. This house is not the same and I will no longer stay here.” She looked at me with sad eyes. “I will take the bus early tomorrow morning.” She picked up her basket of dirty linens and walked toward the corridor, her head held high, her pride intact.

  “Did you have to pick a fight with her?”

  “Don’t blame me for this,” my stepmother said.

  “She takes care of this entire house by herself. It’s too much for one person, and it’s not your place to fire her.”

  “I suppose you think that it’s your place?”

  I considered her question and realized that I was no longer sure. “Stay away from Anca.” I turned my back and walked away.

  ***

  I found Anca in the back hallway, loading the sheets into the washer. I watched her for a few minutes as she bent over the basket, shook out the sheets, and put them in the washing machine. Anca preferred to do the laundry the old-fashioned way, but she had since come to like the quick efficiency of loading the dirty clothes into “that contraption,” adding the detergent, and presto, work finished. On cold days, Anca would string our clean laundry on a clothes line through the kitchen, letting the warmth of the stove dry the clothes, never mind that every now and then the sheets would smell like a pork roast or a loaf of bread.

  Now I watched her, sad at the changes wrought by time. When had her hair become so gray? When had her back developed that slight hump between the shoulder blades? Anca was close to seventy years old. I always assumed that she would be with us forever. Where would she go when she could no longer work, when her old bones wouldn’t allow her to do anything but rest and read and knit sweaters for her sister’s grandchildren? Anca had lost all of her own offspring. Every single one of them had died a tragic death, like so many of the Roma had suffered in Europe. Who would tend to Anca when she was too old to work?

  She stood up straight and rubbed the small of her back with her work worn hand, the knuckles reddened and chapped.

  “I feel your eyes upon me, Sarah,” she said. She turned around and smiled. “Don’t worry yourself about what happened earlier. I was going to talk to you about quitting anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m tired,” she said. “Your mother--Jessica--left me a little money. If I’m careful, I can live on it for the rest of my life.”

  “Where will you go?” I asked.

  “My sister is lonely. She wants me to come to her,” she said. “She has a small bedroom for me. She has everything I need.” Anca’s sister lived in San Francisco. Her two sons had joined the Navy. One of them was injured during the Battle of the Midway and was recuperating at a hospital in some undisclosed location. The other one was a pilot. Anca was very proud of her nephews.

  “So you’ll be close, and I can see you often,” I said.

  Anca put a hand on my cheek. She had tears in her eyes. “You can see me often, Sarah, but it’s time for you to move on. You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded, knowing full well that after I was able to prove what Vivian Mason did, what she had done to my real mother, Grace Kensington, I would leave Bennett Cove. Anca was right. It was time for me to move on.

  ***

  I dressed and combed my hair before I went into the office to write Anca her final check. I glanced at Zeke’s desk as I walked by. He had prepared a checklist of the tasks he needed to do this morning to finalize my father’s trip to New York. The list included things like confirming my father’s reservation at the Algonquin, scheduling lunch with various important people at 21 and Tavern on the Green, and other mundane tasks. My father was a celebrity now, and Zeke was charged with keeping his calendar in order, typing his correspondence, and dealing with Hamish, who I knew called every day, eager for news about the latest book.

  I sat down at my father’s desk and pulled out the household account ledger. I wrote Anca’s check, a full month’s wages, plus six months as severance. As I put the checkbook back in the drawer, I discovered the lid to the strongbox wasn’t all the way shut. I tried to push the lid down, but the lock wouldn’t catch. I took the box out of the drawer and set it on top of my father’s desk. The papers that Vivian had taken out last night were out of sorts and thrown back into the box in a disorganized pile that prevented the lid from closing.

  I dumped everything out and sorted the pile so it was small and compact. There were the property deeds, banking documents, and other items that Vivian had pilfered through last night. The stacked papers felt strange, not the right thickness. Something was missing. I rifled them and discovered my birth certificate and passport were no longer there. I went through the papers again, checking to make sure that I hadn’t overlooked them. They were gone. Vivian had taken them.

  Acting without a thought to the promise I made to Vivian about giving her twenty-four hours before I spoke to my father, I barged up the stairs. He needed to know the woman he married was not Grace Kensington. He needed to know what his wife had done to Gran. He needed to know that his wife had taken my birth certificate and passport. I flew up the stairs, but stopped just short of bursting into the room. Vivian and Jack were having a somewhat heated conversation. I pressed my ear against the door and eavesdropped without shame.

  “I’m not exactly in funds, darling,” Vivian said.

  “You misled me about your financial situation,” my father said.

  Vivian said something to him, but I couldn’t make out her words.

  “Are you keeping any other secrets from me?” my father asked.

  Vivian murmured something in return.

  “Of course, I’ll help you. You’re my wife. I’ll give you anything you need.”

  Somehow this dialogue between them brought home the seriousness of the situation. Zeke’s words of caution rang through my ears. I took a deep breath, vowed to be calm and rational, and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” my father said. When Vivian saw me, she forced a smile, but underneath it was just the slightest hint of unease. She kissed my father and headed toward the door where I stood.

  “Remember your promise,” she whispered when she passed me, in a voice just soft enough for my ears only.

  “Before you go.” I made appoint to speak loud enough for my father to hear. “Did you take my passport and birth certificate while you were looking through the desk last night? They’re missing and since you were the last one...” I let my words hang in the air.

  “Of course I didn’t take your passport. Why in the world would I do that?”

  “One wonders,” I said.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me.” She shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with my father.

  The dark velvet curtains had been pulled over the windows, and the fire and two oil lamps provided the only light in the room. Two club chairs faced the fireplace, with a marble topped table between them. My father sat in one of the chairs, on the other, a notebook sat open,
a pencil resting on the page. I was about to pick it up when my father reached over and snatched the notebook away, snapping it shut in one fell swoop.

  “No, Sarah, no one gets to read my work until it’s finished.” His smile took the sting out of his sharp words. “What can I do for you?” He beckoned to the empty chair where the notebook had lain. I sat down in it. “Sarah Jane? What’s wrong?”

  “I know I’m adopted.”

  He looked at me with the sad eyes of a man who has lost his wife and is now afraid of losing his daughter. My heart broke for him. “Sit down,” he said.

  I sat in the empty chair and waited for him to explain.

  “How did you find out?”

  I wasn’t prepared for this question. Admitting the truth would betray Zeke’s confidence. So I lied. “I found some notes in Gran’s desk. A letter, actually.”

  “Can I see it?” He asked.

  “I burned it.” Another lie.

  “I’m sorry that you had to find out like that. Your mother--Jessica--insisted that we never tell you. I didn’t agree with her. I wanted to tell you--you cannot know how many times I almost told you, I was so desperate not to have secrets from you. When Jessica died, I vowed to tell you the truth. But you went away, and when you came home, I didn’t want to upset you, not after the other thing--my getting married.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And here we are.”

  “Yes, here we are.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I already have. You’re the only father I’ve ever known. We’ve forged a relationship over the years that no one will replace. That will never change.”

  He smiled at me with sad eyes. “Thank you for that.”

  “Do you know anything about my birth family?”

  “I know your mother was killed in a train crash while en route from Canada to Maine in December of 1919. I know that your father died of influenza in 1918. Most of all, I know Jessica and I loved you the second we saw you.”