The girl and the dog bounded up to the front door as she heard the wheels of Hank’s truck crunch over the gravel driveway.
She pushed open the door and turned on the light. The high ceiling and the tall expanse of windows added a chill to the house. The stark walls and the shadowed corners still offered little welcome. This house didn’t care if she stayed.
“Is there any cake left?” Natasha asked.
“None,” Lucy replied.
“Too bad. Super good. You did a fantastic job with it.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you could teach me how?”
“Sure. But don’t you have homework?”
“Always, but it can wait.”
Lucy hadn’t eaten any of the covered dishes. She’d been too busy fighting nausea, sadness, and grief as she tried to absorb so many stories about Beth. The community had circled around her. Embraced her. But she’d also felt suffocated.
“Have you watched more videos of your mom?” Natasha asked.
“I watched an hour’s worth earlier today.”
“We could watch more now. Make popcorn or something.”
In the kitchen, she turned on the hot water tap, which spit out cold water for a good thirty seconds before it slowly warmed. She washed her hands and dried them. She needed a break from Beth before she dived into the next video.
“Snack. Homework. Then popcorn and movie.”
“Ah, come on,” Natasha said. “That can wait.”
“That’s what I used to say to my mom.”
“And what did she say?”
“She’d say, ‘Okay, go watch TV.’”
Natasha put her hands on her hips. “And you turned out okay.”
Lucy shook her head. “You don’t want to end up like me, Natasha. Tending bar is okay, but it means long hours and hard work. It would be a waste of your sharp mind.”
“You don’t have to be a bartender anymore. You can stay here and fix up Winter Cottage.”
“And then what?” The question was meant more for herself than the girl.
Natasha shrugged. “The house is always going to need someone.”
“I don’t know anything about taking care of a house.”
“Hank does. He’d help.”
“I know he would.”
Lucy knew they weren’t talking just about the house as she sliced a loaf of bread and spread butter on several pieces. She handed one to Natasha and bit into the other. She thought about Hank today, showing up at her front door dressed in a coat and tie. No man had ever put on a suit for her. She also knew he had something to do with the freshly cut grass at the cemetery.
“I mean, he could be your half brother,” Natasha said. “That would be kinda cool to have a brother, wouldn’t it?”
If the girl had dumped a bucket of ice water on her head, she couldn’t have rattled her more. She was now very aware that Beth could have slept with Hank’s father.
“Eat.”
Natasha tore off a piece and handed it to Dolly. “Kinda weird, I guess.”
“Yes, it is.” From the plastic bag, Lucy pulled articles Mrs. Reynolds had given her about Winter Cottage. Most were published in the local paper, but a few had appeared in the Virginian-Pilot based in Norfolk.
The first article dated to 1916 and featured the wedding photo of George Buchanan and Elizabeth Lawrence.
The newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan stood in front of the cottage. Mrs. Buchanan’s dress was a creamy satin with a beaded bodice and yards and yards of tulle that the wind gently teased. Mr. Buchanan wore his evening coat with tails and a top hat. Her smile was brilliant, and his chest puffed with pride.
Next to the couple were two smartly dressed young people. The girl was stunning, dressed in a velvety dress with a matching fur-trimmed hat that framed blonde curls and sharp cheekbones. She wasn’t smiling, but her clear, light gaze telegraphed an impish charm that would have been hard to resist. The young man, tall and slender, looked very much like his father. This was Victoria and her brother, Robert.
Lucy studied Mrs. Buchanan’s wedding dress more closely. She recalled the portrait that she’d found in the closet. It was the same dress, but not the same bride.
The next article featured a local man, James Latimer. His picture was printed above the fold, which was no wonder because he could only be described as breathtakingly handsome. Many would have picked up the paper just to admire him. His gaze bore a gravity that saved him from ever being described as pretty. If anything, it made him a man’s man and all the more irresistible. She could see why the young Claire and Victoria had been drawn to James Latimer. The headline read LOCAL MAN TO COMMAND MARIAH.
Lucy felt a sense of pride as she thought about Jimmy rising through the ranks.
Feeling hopeful, she flipped to the next article, dated August of that same year. This headline was far more ominous, THE MARIAH LOST AT SEA, and the article explained how the ship had been torpedoed near Nassau by a German U-boat. She’d never known Jimmy and the men who served under him, yet the weight of this loss bore down as she thought about the young girl who had lost so much.
“Damn it,” she muttered.
“What?” Natasha asked.
She showed her the article. The girl read it and shrugged.
Lucy’s nerves were scraped raw from her mother’s passing along with the memorial service. She dug through the papers, searching for any article that would reveal the fate of the men on the Mariah. She found a small mention in the Norfolk paper about the Mariah that said twenty crewmembers, including Jimmy Latimer and Stanley Hedrick, had been among the survivors picked up by a fishing vessel.
The immediate sense of relief Lucy felt was quickly dashed by the next paragraph, which stated Isaac Hedrick had been lost at sea. The old sailor was survived by his seven children, Catherine “Claire,” Jemma, Sarah, Diane, Stanley, Joseph, and Michael.
“Poor Claire lost her father, but at least her brother and Jimmy survived,” Lucy said.
“Why are you crying?” Natasha asked.
“It’s sad.” Lucy wiped a tear away and flipped to the next article. It noted that Mr. Robert Buchanan had been commissioned into the army in late summer 1916. Mrs. B had said the first time she’d danced with Robert at the locals’ party the winter before, he’d been in a fight, but there’d been no mention of military service.
The next article announced the fall 1916 wedding of Robert Buchanan to Miss Catherine Claire Hedrick. She wore an ivory wedding dress and stood alone on the front lawn of Winter Cottage with the bay behind her. Full white clouds lingered in the clear sky, and a gentle breeze caught the veil.
Claire, a servant in the Buchanan household, had married the heir to the family fortune. Surely the wedding had been something of a shock, if not a scandal. And what about Jimmy? Lucy studied the young Claire’s face. She was smiling, but her eyes didn’t sparkle, as you’d expect from a bride.
The couple planned to live at Winter Cottage, rather than in New York City.
The next piece was dated March 1917 and included a picture of Sally and Eric Jessup and their five boys. The older three boys were teenagers, whereas the younger two were babes in arms, one a small infant and the other just over one year old. Eric Jessup had won a commendation for rescuing sailors during a hurricane.
Lucy knew from the last tape that the three older boys were Claire Hedrick’s brothers. The baby that Sally had been carrying during the wedding festivities in January 1916 would have been the older of the two children held by Sally in the picture. The youngest, her fifth son, was Lucy’s grandfather, Samuel.
Lucy stared at her adoptive great-grandmother’s smiling face as she stared at her husband. Sally was radiant, surrounded by the men in her life.
The last piece told the story of another man claimed by the sea in 1917, which Lucy now understood was the price of living in a community like this. The local sheriff said Mr. Robert Buchanan had taken a boat out in a horrific storm. His body had never bee
n recovered, meaning the grave in the cemetery was empty.
Hank
Hank parked at the top of the circular driveway outside his family home. It was a brick two-story colonial with hunter-green shutters and a white front porch that wrapped around the house. He got out of the car and strode toward his parents’ house. They’d not spoken much at the funeral, but he knew he and his father needed to talk about Beth.
On the porch, wind chimes danced in the breeze. He opened the front door and was greeted by the scents of his mother’s spaghetti sauce brewing on the stove. She’d started the tradition of having spaghetti on Wednesdays when Hank and his sister were young. Mrs. Garrison insisted the family ate together that one day of the week.
“Mom!” he said.
“In the kitchen pantry.”
He found her rearranging cans, something she did when she was upset or worried. “What’s going on?”
“Why does anything have to be wrong for me to clean?” she asked.
“Mom. You clean when you’re annoyed.”
She brushed hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “The funeral service. Beth Jessup and I were the same age. All I can remember is a young girl who was nice to me when she found me in the ladies’ room crying. I’d just found out I was pregnant with you, and I was terrified. She hugged me and told me I would be fine.”
His mother and father had married right before graduation of their senior year in high school. At that time, she had been eight months pregnant. The family had circled the wagons around the young couple, who despite the odds had gotten college educations and raised Hank and his sister. “I didn’t realize you knew her that well.”
“We were all friends. It was such a small community. Everyone knew everyone.”
The fact that his parents had married before graduation didn’t get his father off the hook when it came to possibly having gotten Beth pregnant. If anything, it made the need for clarification all the more important.
His mother sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Beth’s daughter looks so much like her. It’s like looking into the past. What’s she like?”
“She’s a good person.”
“Is she keeping the house?”
“I don’t know. She’s not used to this kind of responsibility, and now she has a big decision.”
“I think it’s sweet she’s taken in the Willard girl. God knows that child needs a break.”
“She sure does.” Impatience nipped at him. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the shed out back. He’s fixing the lawnmower.”
“Thanks.”
“Everything all right?”
Hank kissed her on the cheek. “Never better.”
He strode out the back door, trying to picture his father as a newly married husband with a baby on the way. The pressure must have been tough. His parents had been great, and he had no complaints, but they rarely talked about before he was born.
Hank found his father in the shed working on a red lawnmower. He’d pulled off a spark plug and was holding it up to an overhead light.
“Dad.”
His father removed half glasses and smiled. “What brings you by?”
“I’m going to be blunt, Dad.”
A grin deepened the lines around his father’s mouth. “You have been since you were two, son. What’s up?”
Hank closed the door to the shed. “Did you sleep with Beth Jessup? Are you Lucy’s father?”
Noah Garrison stiffened and glanced toward the window, making sure his wife wasn’t close. “No. I’m not Lucy’s father.”
“Then why are you looking around for Mom?”
“Because I came damn close to messing up everything I had with your mother. We’d put all that behind us until today when that damn Brian Willard showed up.”
“What happened between you and Beth?”
“Your mother was about eight months pregnant. She was terrified about having a baby and certain all her plans for college were ruined. She was understandably emotional. And that’s not to say that she doesn’t adore you more than anything,” he was quick to add. “The minute you were born, she was in love.”
“I know all that. I’m concerned about the month before Beth left town. But you need to be honest with me, Dad. Are you Lucy’s father?”
Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes. “Like I said, no.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, damn it, I am.” His voice had risen a notch, and it took a moment for him to regain composure. “I came close, but I didn’t sleep with Beth. And why do you care so much?”
“It’s just important to me.”
“Why? Do you like Lucy?”
“I’ve known her two days. And I’d bet my last dollar she’ll be back in Nashville by the end of the month.”
“Son, if she’s anything like her mother, she won’t stick around. I’m amazed Beth didn’t take off sooner. She was always a restless soul, but after her mother died and her father went back to sea, she had nothing to anchor her and got into the habit of thinking that drifting through life was normal.” He shrugged. “If Lucy leaves, that would be good for you. That means you get the cottage.”
“Exactly. It would make all my plans fall right into place.”
“What about the lease on the land?”
“Lucy signed the extension. We’re good for another ten years.”
“So why are you frowning?”
“I’m not.”
“You come charging in here to find out if I had an affair over thirty years ago. Asking me if I’m Lucy’s father. And yeah, kiddo, you’re frowning more than usual.”
Hank sat on a stool by the workbench and picked up a wrench. “I’ve got so much riding on this project, Dad. It’s not just me. It’s my guys. The town. The vineyard has helped, but developing the land beyond and scaling up production is going to make a huge impact on this area and their lives.”
“I appreciate your loyalty to your men and the town. But you don’t owe them a career and a place to live.”
“Yeah. I do owe them all.”
Noah was silent for a moment, and then, squaring his shoulders, he clamped his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Like you said, Lucy is most likely going to be gone by the end of the month. This is a beautiful place, but the pace is slower, and it’s not for everyone. She looks like a big-city girl. Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just she might not like it here.”
“I know.”
Noah shook his head. “There was a wildness in Beth that was intoxicating. She could light up a room. No high school gathering was really fun until she showed up. But she could be self-destructive. She had brains and could have done anything with her life.”
“And she got pregnant in high school. Like you and Mom?”
“Yes, but we had your grandparents. Otherwise, we’d have been in a world of hurt. Beth didn’t have parents to back her up. By the time her father returned from sea, she was gone.”
Noah shook his head. “I’ve thought about Beth over the years and wondered why she vanished like she did. Both Mrs. B and Samuel knew about Lucy, and Mrs. B did send money, but she died when Lucy was just over one year old. And as wild as Beth could be, she had her pride. She wouldn’t have asked Samuel for help.”
“Lucy said she and her mother had their differences. I guess stubborn runs through that family,” Hank said.
“Samuel could be bullheaded. But he was a good man. If not for him, your mother and I couldn’t have planted the vineyard when you were little.”
“Lucy said there are several tapes of Beth interviewing Mrs. Buchanan.”
“She left right before graduation. If she had a project, I never heard about it.”
“Do you think that project is the reason she left the property and house to Beth and Lucy?”
“I don’t believe that’s the reason. Mrs. B was very loyal to family. I can’t imagine her breaking with tradition and giving it to someone outside her blood
line.”
“What kind of connection did Mrs. B have with the Jessup family?”
“Well, the Jessups raised her three younger brothers, and I believe she was always grateful for that. But she did permit Samuel to live in the gatekeeper’s cottage when he finally married in the late 1960s.”
“But why not leave Winter Cottage to one of her blood relatives? Samuel was the Jessups’ boy.”
“I don’t know,” he said as he took the wrench from Hank. “When do you meet with the bank?”
“Two days.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“I’ll tell them Lucy renewed the lease for the next ten years.”
“Which is good, but a lease is not leverage.”
Hank shook his head, never imagining that the dream that had been so black-and-white could now be in doubt. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Beth
May 29, 1988
As the camera is rolling, Beth Jessup sits in Mrs. Buchanan’s chair in Winter Cottage’s main parlor. The bay is to her back. The sky is clear.
She wore her black sweater today and left her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She even put on makeup, adding blush to make her cheeks rosier and mascara to make her eyes pop.
Beth moistens her lips and tugs the cuff of her sweater down to hide the bruise, which looks worse than it is. “Mrs. B is keeping me waiting. She does this sometimes. I can’t get mad. She’s almost a hundred years old, and some days she’s slower than others. Totally cool.” She glances toward the door. “I just wish today she’d hurry up. I’ve got a date.” Her smile is sly. Wicked. “A secret date. And as usual, I’m playing with fire, but then, what’s the fun of life if you always play it safe?”
There is a noise in the background and then footsteps. Beth rises up out of the seat and says, “Hey, Mrs. B. Looking mighty fetching today.”
“Thank you.” Dark circles ring Mrs. B’s eyes, and her skin looks paler than normal. She’s in her wheelchair today, and a young African American girl no more than thirteen is pushing the chair. The girl is as thin as a reed, and her dark hair is braided. She’s wearing jeans and a pale-blue shirt.
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