Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “You look like her.”

  “Do I? Her skin was a little darker and she was tall. She ran track in high school, though whenever we raced, I always beat her.” She picked up a chip and frowned. “She was letting me win. I know that.”

  “She enjoyed watching you win,” Lucy said.

  “I guess.”

  She sipped her coffee. “What was her name?”

  “Grace.”

  “Are your grandparents still around?”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” Natasha asked.

  “No, like I said, I don’t know any of the history around here.”

  She tore the crust from her sandwich. “They died when I was two. It was some kind of fire. Mom said she never got over losing them. All she had left was Dad and me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was all okay when she was alive. She could keep Dad calm, and when he took off for a few days, it was okay because she was still there.”

  “She died of cancer.” Lucy could say the words without her voice breaking, but speaking them hurt, maybe always would.

  “Yeah. Two years ago.” Natasha set down the sandwich and wiped her hands on the napkin. “I miss her every day.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sipped the coffee. “What about your dad?”

  “Why do you want to know about him?”

  “I’m not trying to stir up trouble. I’m just trying to understand your father.”

  “My mom said it wasn’t his fault he was so mean. His daddy was mean to him, and she said that’s all he knew.”

  Beth had dated her share of guys who weren’t the nicest of men. Though her mother had done her best to shield Lucy from whatever happened behind closed doors, she’d known when her mother was upset or trying to hide a bruise with makeup. But not all the guys Beth dated had been bad. There had been Tim, who drove a dump truck, and Joey, who’d played the guitar in the studio for anyone needing to record a song, and Alex, who’d already had four wives but wanted Beth to be number five.

  It hadn’t been totally terrible. And yeah, they’d had their ups and downs, but Beth had always tried to look out for Lucy when she was little. Maybe that was why she’d left Cape Hudson. Maybe she’d been afraid.

  Of a guy like Brian. He had gone to school with Beth. He had played football like one of the boys she’d mentioned on the tape. And he could easily have left bruises on Beth.

  Brian Willard.

  Her father.

  Jesus.

  That possibility was reason enough to leave town, because if she did stay, he’d always be around, stirring up trouble. But leaving also meant abandoning Natasha to that creep, and she couldn’t do that either.

  If she tested her DNA with Natasha’s, she’d know immediately if Brian was her father and Natasha her half sister. She’d be a real, live, living relative who could assume full custody of Natasha.

  Damn. She had no idea how to raise a kid. Her only role model had done the best she could, but that wasn’t the kind of life she wanted for Natasha.

  What had started as a simple trek east to bring Beth home had taken so many twists and turns she wondered now if she would ever find her way back to Nashville.

  “You look worried,” Natasha said.

  “Just thinking.”

  “You don’t have to worry about my dad. He’s going to be lying low for a while. He knows he screwed up, and he doesn’t want to go to prison. Heck, he might have even left the area.”

  “You think he really left?”

  “No. He’s interested in this house.”

  “What about the house?”

  “He’s always wanted to get in the house. He said there was no reason for it to be empty while folks like him were living in a double-wide. He tried to break in a few times, but Mr. Jessup kept it locked up tight.”

  “But you got in.”

  “Only when Dad was away, and I never told him I could get through that basement window.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Because if he got into Winter Cottage, he wouldn’t just live here. He’d strip it bare and sell it for parts. His daddy used to work here, and he didn’t like Mrs. B.”

  “Your grandfather worked here?”

  “Yeah. It was a long time ago. He did lawn maintenance for Mrs. B back in the sixties or something. Dad always called Mrs. B ‘the Queen.’ He said she was a townie just like the rest, but she thought she was better than everyone because of Winter Cottage.”

  “I didn’t get that impression at all. She seemed real pleasant to Beth. She never put on airs.”

  Natasha bit into her sandwich. “I agree. She looked pretty cool.”

  The rumble of a truck and a vehicle door slamming out front pricked Dolly’s ears, and she went running toward the front door wagging her tail. Lucy rose, and as she rounded the corner, she saw through the glass panels Hank standing on the front porch. A blush rose up to her cheeks, and leaving this life suddenly felt a little foolish.

  Lucy unlocked the door and smiled. He was wearing his dark suit and had loosened his tie. “How did your meeting go today?”

  “It went.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Rick tells me there’s no sign of Brian.”

  “He’s not been around here.”

  “Learn anything new from the videos?”

  “No.” The word tumbled out because she knew she was still hedging her bets. If Hank suspected she was Natasha’s half sister, he’d insist she stay. It would mean giving up Nashville, her friends, and her old life. And as much as she liked Hank and Natasha, the idea of commitment terrified her. Jobs, school, or men had never lasted more than a few months, and she’d rarely mourned the loss longer than it took to down a few shots of whiskey. But if she failed these two, it would take more than whiskey to wash the guilt away.

  “Did you open the chest?” Hank studied her closely, as if sensing something was off but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  She managed a smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Make me a sandwich, and I’ll get my tools from the truck,” Hank said.

  “It’s a deal.” She was grateful for a mundane task to buy her time.

  “Hey, is that Hank?” Natasha rounded the corner. “Where’s he going?”

  “To get his tools from the truck. After he eats, we’re opening the trunk.”

  “Awesome!”

  “Let’s make him a sandwich.”

  They were in the kitchen, and she was slicing a ham sandwich on a diagonal when Hank reappeared with a leather tool belt in his hand. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it carefully over a chair.

  Natasha got him a soda from the refrigerator. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I heard. Thank you.”

  “Sure. Always. You’re the Man, Hank.”

  He laughed as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Lucy raised her cup of coffee to her lips, mesmerized by his hands.

  “So what was your meeting about?” Lucy asked.

  “The development. These were potential investors.”

  “You told them I was here, right?”

  “I did.” He bit into the sandwich, taking extra care to chew on the meat and bread, apparently searching for the right words.

  “And what did they say?”

  He popped the top on his soda. “It’s a wrinkle they were not expecting.”

  “I can imagine.” She wondered if it was possible to truly feel at home in Winter Cottage. “So how did you leave it?”

  “I thought maybe we could talk about that later. When we’re alone.”

  “You don’t want me to hear,” Natasha said.

  “That’s right, kiddo. This is between Lucy and me.”

  “I’m almost grown up,” Natasha said.

  “Not as much as you think,” he countered.

  Lucy’s sense of goodwill and excitement ebbed as the two chatted. She imagined promises Hank might have made on her behalf. Did he assure them she w
as leaving? Did he guarantee he had her backing? Did last night have an ulterior motive?

  Lucy wanted to believe that Hank was an honest-to-a-fault, straight-shooting kind of guy. But she’d slung drinks in a town where deals and promises were broken as easily as they were made. Her chest tightened, and she could feel a dull throb pounding in the side of her head.

  Hank rose and carried his plate to the sink. “Ready to open the chest?”

  No. She wasn’t ready. She wanted to drag his butt outside and have this out with him right now. What the hell had happened at the Norfolk meeting?

  But Natasha’s excited expression temporarily silenced her questions. “Let’s do this.”

  Hank studied her as if he knew he’d somehow tripped a bad vibe. He allowed Natasha to take his hand and drag him and his tool belt into the parlor, where the chest had sat for the last two days. Dolly followed, leaving Lucy alone with her doubts.

  Lucy set down her cup, taking extra time to rinse it along with Hank’s, and then she placed both in the drainer.

  “Luceee, come on!” Natasha shouted.

  She dried off her hands and found the two staring at the roughly hewn box.

  “I don’t want to damage it,” Hank said. “And seeing as we don’t have a key, I’m going to take the back hinges off.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He pulled out a drill and, after taking a moment to choose the right bit, plugged it in. He pressed the trigger, and the whir-whir of the bit echoed in the hall.

  He knelt by the box as Natasha sat cross-legged on the floor, totally engrossed in what he was doing. That little girl wanted to belong so badly, and Lucy knew, no matter what happened with her and Hank over Winter Cottage, she’d have the DNA test done. And if it wasn’t a match . . . well, maybe she’d find a way to get custody.

  After about ten minutes of drilling and prying, Hank took off the last hinge holding the lid and box together. He unplugged the drill and set it aside.

  He rubbed his hands together and deadpanned, “So you really want to open it?”

  The girl groaned. “Yesss!”

  “Lucy, are you ready?” he asked.

  No, she was not ready for the avalanche of change that was rolling in her direction. “Open it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Beth

  June 12, 1988

  Beth has thrown up three times this morning. She wants to go to the Quick Mart and buy a pregnancy test, but if she does that kind of thing in this town, then everyone, including him, would know about the baby. In Norfolk, she can go to a clinic and get a real test. But that would require borrowing a car from her neighbor. He asks why, of course, and she then lies and says Mrs. B has moved their weekly meeting to Thursday and needs fabric samples. He gives her the keys, warning her to be back on the road by two to miss the afternoon traffic that really starts around three when the naval base workday ends.

  What comes next is “the Visit,” the plus sign, and the nurse’s conversation about “options.” On the bright side, she misses the traffic.

  Mrs. B is moving slowly as she pushes her walker across the parquet floor of the great room, and she looks pale. Her young caregiver, Grace, is right behind her. The girl is quiet and looks a little too young in the nurse’s uniform.

  Mrs. B is wearing a pale-pink suit, which Beth recognizes now as Yves Saint Laurent. It’s hard to spend any time around Mrs. B and not learn her labels. She accessorizes with classic pearls, the ivory broach, and very sensible but expensive chunky-heeled beige shoes.

  Beth stands and helps Grace settle the old woman into her chair. They’ve met seven times now and have fallen into a kind of routine. Camera on tripod. Microphone set. Mrs. B adjusting her skirt and checking already perfect lipstick in a small handheld mirror.

  After Grace closes the door behind her and they’re alone, she says, “You never said who the father of Victoria’s baby was.”

  “No, I did not,” Mrs. B says. “I promised that I never would, and I have not.”

  “Why did you promise?” Most of the people in Beth’s life have been fast and loose with promises, using them as placeholders to keep a temporary peace. Beth realizes she’s not good with them either, but she swears she’ll do right by her baby. Somehow.

  “My husband, Robert, would have found a way to punish the child. And if I learned anything growing up in the Buchanan house, it was how to keep secrets.”

  “Can you tell me now? It’s been over seventy years.”

  She is silent for a long moment. “Time does not change the fact that I gave my word.”

  “Did it ever make you feel bad to keep a secret?”

  The woman studies her for a long moment. Does she notice her pale skin and fuller breasts? So far, the signs aren’t too hard to hide, but that will change soon.

  Mrs. B touches the broach on her collar and gently fingers it. “If a secret is meant to protect a child, then it’s a necessary evil.”

  Claire

  May 16, 1917

  Robert had left for Norfolk several days ago and said the trip was business, but Claire didn’t really care. As long as he was gone, she would be fine. Since the night of his homecoming, he’d stayed in his room, alone. She’d telegrammed his father, informing him his son had arrived, and told him Robert was not doing well. The elder Mr. Buchanan had not responded.

  The trap she’d so effortlessly stepped into bound her, and she saw little hope for herself. The darkness seemed to be closing in around her, and then like all storms, the clouds parted when she and Mrs. Latimer received word from town.

  “Jimmy Latimer is alive!” the boy from the butcher exclaimed.

  “What?” The baby kicked hard in Claire’s belly.

  “He’s alive. The message came over the telegraph.”

  Mrs. Latimer crumpled in a chair and raised her apron to her watery eyes. “Are you sure, boy? Are you really sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The men at the telegraph office checked it twice to confirm.”

  “When will he arrive?” Claire asked.

  “Today on the afternoon train. He said he just wants his ma to meet him.”

  Mrs. Latimer wept. “Of course I’ll go see him.”

  Claire rubbed her hand over her full belly. It had been over a year since she’d seen Jimmy. He would think her a faithless soul for not waiting, and he’d be right. She’d selfishly given in to sadness and now was paying the price.

  “Is he hurt?” Mrs. Latimer asked.

  “Telegram didn’t say,” the boy replied. “Just said he was coming.”

  When the boy left them, they sat in the kitchen, still as stone. “It can’t be right,” Mrs. Latimer gasped. “It can’t.”

  Claire laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s a miracle.”

  “And I’ll never ask for another again.” She raised a trembling hand to her hair. “I have to get ready. I have to ride into town.”

  “I’ll have one of the boys go with you.”

  “Can I put Jimmy in the boathouse apartment?”

  “Of course.” Robert might argue later, but she’d worry about that then.

  And so the two spent the next couple of hours preparing. While Mrs. Latimer tidied herself up, Claire cleaned the room over in the boathouse, sweeping out the dust and putting clean sheets on the bed.

  At three o’clock, she waved as Mrs. Latimer climbed in the car, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Claire watched as the car rumbled away. There was nothing left for her to do but wait.

  Two hours later, Mrs. Latimer returned to the cottage. Her face was ashen, and her hands trembled.

  “Did you get Jimmy?” Claire asked.

  Mrs. Latimer began to cry. “Yes.”

  “What is it?” Claire held her while she wept.

  “How could the world be so cruel to a fine man like Jimmy?”

  “What are you talking about?” Claire poured Mrs. Latimer a brandy and sat with her while she drank it.

  “He’s not the man
that left.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I can’t speak of it.” Worry gripped her voice. Claire settled the mother into her room on the third floor and set out to see Jimmy.

  The wind was blustery and cold. She burrowed in the folds of her coat as she hurried down the road, telling herself that whatever it was couldn’t be that bad, while she also steeled herself for what was to come.

  As Claire walked, the baby lay heavy in her belly. With each anxious step that led down the sandy path, she prayed it wasn’t as bad as Mrs. Latimer had described. A mother, after all, would be grieved by any injury to her child.

  The tall grass brushed the hem of her skirt as she made her way to the boathouse. Her hand paused on the door latch as she struggled to calm her nerves. She smoothed back a curl, praying he didn’t think less of her for not waiting for him.

  Inside, the sound of a tool hitting metal clanged and echoed in the rafters above. She pictured Jimmy’s broad, muscled shoulders wielding the hammer, and even given her advanced state of pregnancy, her womb tightened with desire.

  She moistened her lips.

  There was so much to tell him.

  She knocked on the door, but when the clang of the hammer continued, she was too impatient to knock again. She pressed on the door handle, and when the latch released, she stepped into the boat shed.

  The first floor of the boat shed was lit through the open doors where water from the inlet and bay lapped against the wooden sides. A skiff hung from a set of pulleys and ropes. Half its hull had been scraped of barnacles. Life preservers, hooks with long handles, and rope hung from hooks.

  The hammer’s blows were so hard, the floorboards rattled violently and kicked up dust.

  She pulled the folds of her coat around her belly, suddenly embarrassed by her new pear shape. Even after her marriage, she’d dreamed of Jimmy’s return, and each time she’d pictured herself with him, she was slim waisted and wearing her favorite burgundy dress.

  She climbed the dark stairs, her hand skimming the roughly hewn wall. With each step she grew more nervous. Of course Jimmy had survived the downing of the ship. He was a strong swimmer, and if there were ever a man to persevere, it was him. He had a good and true heart, and God surely saved him for a good reason. She could handle this.