Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “I shouldn’t have rejected him, Mrs. Latimer. I shouldn’t have been afraid.”

  The older woman pressed a compress to her forehead. “He sent a fright through me that stole my breath.”

  “But you didn’t run.”

  “He knows you care for him.”

  “I should have found a way past the carnage and accepted him. And God is punishing me.”

  As labor drew on, she grew weaker, and her mind began to play tricks. God would punish her with a creature. What better revenge than to gift her with a child who frightened people away?

  After twenty hours of labor, the midwife was still not to be found, she could barely breathe, and her body was so fatigued, she didn’t have the strength to sit up. The women around her began to whisper with worry. Claire was losing this fight. She and the baby were going to die.

  In the distance, Mrs. Latimer ordered all the women out of the room. As a shadow appeared at the door, none argued as footsteps hurried away.

  “All right, Claire,” Mrs. Latimer said. “It’s time we birth this baby. We’re going to do it together. Let’s get you up.”

  “I can’t.”

  Strong arms banded around her shoulders, pulled her forward, and Mrs. Latimer yanked off Claire’s gown. As she was lifted from the bed and suspended, she cried and tried to get free. But whoever held her upright had a strong grip. Through haze and pain, she looked at the pair of hands, expecting to see Robert. But she knew those hands. They’d touched her with love and affection. They were Jimmy’s.

  Mrs. Latimer reached up into her. Claire thought she had suffered up to this point, but in that moment she thought her body would split in two.

  “Push,” Jimmy ordered.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Do it!” he said.

  She hitched in a breath and then braced for the next contraction. When it came, she pushed, screaming and digging her fingernails into his arms.

  Then came the rush of flesh from her flesh and the wash of blood, cord, and afterbirth. For several seconds, she hung suspended by Jimmy’s strong arms as Mrs. Latimer swiped her finger in the baby’s mouth, held the child upside down, and patted its back. Her vision went in and out of focus. The room filled with a troubling silence. God had willed her a deformed child, or he’d taken the baby.

  And then, mercy. Claire heard the child’s strong cry and Mrs. Latimer’s exclamation that it was a strong, healthy boy. Later, when she awoke, the baby was sleeping in the cradle by the bed. Mrs. Latimer cooed over him, beaming with joy.

  “Is he really all right?” she whispered.

  Mrs. Latimer straightened, coming to Claire’s side. “He’s fit and fine,” she said. “You did a good job for your first time.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. And Jimmy.”

  Mrs. Latimer shook her head, brushing a curl from Claire’s head. “It was just me, girl. Jimmy was not here.”

  “But I heard him.”

  “No,” she said, tugging the blanket up. “You’re mistaken. And you must never say another word about it. Do you understand?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  Robert returned home two days later, and he was thrilled with the birth of his son. He made promises of a fresh start and no more drinking. But bad habits aren’t so easily banished. They bide their time and wait for frustration, doubt, and then temptation to do their bidding.

  The baby was five weeks old when Robert decided he needed another trip to New York. He was going to personally deliver the news to his father. He was certain the boy, Robert Jr., would heal the wounds between his father and him.

  Claire was glad to see him go. She could barely stand to look at him now, and when he leaned over the baby’s cradle, it was all she could do not to scream and order him away.

  When Robert had been gone two days, Claire worked up the courage to go see Jimmy. As Mrs. Latimer watched the baby, Claire wrapped a thick scarf around her head and headed out to the boathouse. She’d not seen Jimmy since the baby’s birth, and she needed him to know how very sorry she was. She desperately wanted his forgiveness.

  She found him on the second floor of the boathouse. His back was to her, and his head was bent as he worked on one of his carvings.

  “Jimmy,” she said.

  His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn.

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have turned away.”

  “Forgiven, Claire. Now go away.”

  “Jimmy, I’ll never turn away from you again.”

  He raised his head and stared out the window toward the bay. Slowly, he shook his head.

  She crossed the room toward him and touched his shoulder. He flinched. But he didn’t tell her to leave. She smoothed her hand up the side of his face that wasn’t damaged. Jimmy was in this broken shell. He was trapped. Caged like she was in her marriage.

  She settled her hand on his shoulder and raised the other to the damaged side. She started at his temple, feeling a thick scar that felt alien. He sat stock-still, gripping his fingers into fists.

  She came around to face him, but he ducked his face. “No, Claire.”

  She raised his face toward her and looked at his wounds. The damage the war had caused. Tears filled her eyes as she thought about the proud young man who’d been so full of life and so ready to take on the world. She knelt forward and kissed his lips.

  He stared at her, his eye unblinking. “Claire.”

  “Why is it that life always got between us, Jimmy?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She kissed him again, this time cupping his face. “It does.”

  She leaned back, reached for the button on her bodice, and carefully unfastened it. Her breasts were full of milk and spilled over her undergarment. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her breasts. For several long seconds he stood there, his face downcast.

  She leaned forward, wanting his touch. Unable to stand still any longer, he kissed the tender white skin, moaning with a mixture of pleasure, loss, and longing. She’d yearned for this. Lifting her skirts, she straddled him, pressing against his hardness.

  With his gaze on her, he unfastened his breeches and freed himself. She lifted slightly and then lowered herself onto him.

  He dug his fingers into her back as she steadied her hands on his shoulders and took all of him. In this moment, neither one thought about the outside world. It was just the two of them. She savored the whirlwind of sensations that drove them toward the edge.

  When they tumbled over, she hugged him, dipping her head into the crook of his neck. “I love you, Jimmy,” she whispered.

  He raised his fingers to her face and gently traced them across her lips.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she said.

  “Don’t.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “Don’t promise. Get home now before the storm. Live your life.”

  She kissed him full on the lips. “I love you.”

  Hours later, as Claire hurried down the sandy path toward Winter Cottage, the sky cracked with lightning. The air was thick with humidity, and fat raindrops began to fall. Jimmy had warned her of the weather and the coming storm, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him.

  Her breasts were full and beginning to ache as she thought about the baby waiting for her. As much as she now hated her husband, she could never say the same about her son. He was perfect. And whatever she had to do to keep him safe, she would move heaven and earth to do so.

  When she stepped in the back door, she saw the tall dark boots and black coat hanging on the peg.

  “Mrs. Latimer?” she said.

  There was no answer except for her son’s cries. She hurried up the back staircase to him. When she entered her room, a fire crackled in the hearth, and Robert was standing over the cradle.

  “I sent her away.” He touched the baby’s foot. “They’re such fragile little things,” he said, straightening.

  “Robert. I didn�
��t expect you back until next week.”

  As he turned, a smirk jerked the corner of his lip. “Clearly.”

  He clutched the neck of a nearly empty liquor bottle in his hand. “I suppose it makes sense that you would fraternize with the help. Like begets like.”

  She stood very still, realizing the house was eerily quiet except for the cries of her son. Robert had sent away all the servants. “Did you visit your father in New York?”

  “I did.” He swigged another gulp of whiskey.

  In faint electric light, she saw a bruise on his cheek. He’d been struck, and she wondered if his father had caused the injury. “You’re hurt.”

  He crossed the space between them in two strides and drew back his hand, slapping her hard across the mouth. She tasted blood as pain shot through her body. “And now so are you. Consider that a delivery from my father.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath. The wide planks of the floor moved in and out of focus. “What happened in New York?”

  Robert took a long pull on the bottle and leaned over the crib. “He’s not my child, is he?”

  She blinked in horror. She saw the darkness in his gaze and the pure violence that swirled behind it. “He is your son.”

  “Liar.”

  He struck her again, and she fell hard to the floor. He kicked her, his booted foot catching her stomach.

  “You both have become a ball and chain around my ankle. Because of you two, I’m trapped in this godforsaken dump. There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

  She fought through pain and a wave of nausea as he returned to the crib. She knew then that he didn’t see an innocent child. He saw an embarrassment to his good name standing in the path that led back to his father’s good graces. And with sickening clarity, she realized he was going to kill the child and her. He was going to erase his mistakes, free himself from exile, and return to his old glory in New York just as Victoria had done.

  She couldn’t let him hurt the baby. She wouldn’t. As she pushed up to her feet, she stumbled to the side table.

  “The bay can hide so many secrets,” he said. “So many people have been lost. And with this storm, there’s no telling who it will claim.”

  Robert was clever, and he no doubt had already concocted a story. Thunder clapped outside, and the winds howled. He’d been waiting for the storm, and she wondered if he’d even left for New York or had simply been hiding on the shore.

  She could picture what was to come. He’d say mother and child had been lost at sea. She’d made a mistake and misread the weather. She’d done it before. God only knew why she’d taken the boy. She’d gone mad over the news of Jimmy.

  As the baby cried louder, she could hear all the scenarios play out in his softly spoken voice.

  Standing straighter, she wrapped her hands around the candlestick on the table. It was made of silver, and its octagonal base was heavy. She’d have one good swing, and it had to hit its mark. There would be no forgiveness if she failed.

  As he reached for the child, she swung with all the force in her body. Metal crunched bone, and the shock of the impact rattled up her arm. He stumbled away from the cradle and righted himself on the mantel. He touched the back of his head, and when he saw the blood, the dumb look of shock on his face almost made her smile.

  “You’ll rot in prison for this,” he said. He closed his eyes as if the room were spinning and dropped to his knees. “You’ll never see your bastard son again.”

  And this time when she swung, a dozen images flashed in her mind, and the bloodied edge hit him square in the temple. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell flat to the floor. Her ears began to ring, and a cold spread through her limbs. For a moment, there was just Robert and her and the loudest ringing in her ears.

  Claire then heard her son’s cries grow closer, bringing her back to the present.

  She dropped the candlestick and wiped the blood from her hands onto her skirt. She scooped up the boy and quickly shushed him as she pressed his mouth to her breast. Her head throbbed, and her stomach ached with the consequences that promised a fate almost as ugly as Robert’s. It was all she could do to make her wobbly legs carry her to the rocker and sit.

  She lifted her gaze above her son’s sweet face to stare at the blood that pooled around her husband’s dead body.

  She didn’t know how much time passed, but when the baby quieted, she rose, moved to the window, and stared at the choppy rough waters of the bay. They could swallow a man’s body up. They could also spit him back out. Downstairs she heard Mrs. Latimer call up to her. Clutching the baby, she made her way down the center staircase.

  Mrs. Latimer held up a lantern as the storm had knocked out the electricity. The soft glow of light illuminated the older woman’s face crumpled with worry. Her fear grew as she saw the blood on Claire’s skirt. “What has he done to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does. It does.”

  “I need help.” Claire’s voice sounded far away and so utterly calm.

  “Where’s Mr. Robert?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Mrs. Latimer grabbed Claire’s skirt. “You’re covered in blood. What has he done?”

  “It’s not all mine.”

  The older woman’s eyes widened and then narrowed with steadfastness. “What did you do to him?”

  “He’s dead. I killed him.”

  Grim determination sharpened Mrs. Latimer’s pale-blue eyes. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “No. He sent them all away. He meant to kill the baby and me.”

  “Stay right here. Don’t move.”

  Lucy

  January 22, 2018

  Lucy had barely slept. Every time she’d almost drifted off to sleep, worries about Hank, the land, and her father jostled her awake. After staring at the ceiling until 4:00 a.m., she finally couldn’t stay in the bed any longer. She got up, dressed, and with Dolly on her heels, went to the kitchen and brewed herself a cup of coffee.

  When she finished her second cup and was still no closer to understanding why she was so angry with Hank or maybe herself, she pulled out pots and pans and baked three dozen chocolate cupcakes, and when they’d cooled, she iced them. She didn’t know how many kids were in Natasha’s class, but any leftovers would make it to the teacher’s lounge.

  By the time Natasha woke for school, the cupcakes were boxed and ready to go. She was thrilled about the cupcakes but reminded Lucy it wasn’t her birthday. She then quickly added it didn’t technically have to be anyone’s birthday for cupcakes.

  Lucy and Dolly took Natasha to school and waited out front as she proudly carried her bounty into the school.

  “Dolly, now it’s time for Dad. Dad. I can’t believe Brian is Dad.”

  She drove to the jail and, with Dolly in tow for moral support, pushed through the front door of the sheriff’s office. Rick looked up from a stack of papers and rose to greet her. “Lucy, you doing all right?”

  “I’m fine, Rick. Can I see Brian?”

  “Yeah, sure. He’s up. I just served him breakfast.”

  He crossed to a large door behind him. “He’s in the last cell on the right. You can talk to him through the bars, but I’ve got to be present.”

  “Sure. I get that.”

  He unlocked the door, and she smoothed her hands over her jeans, wondering why the hell she was so damn nervous. She moved in front of the cell to find Brian sitting on a cot, his head in his hands. “Brian?”

  He looked up, meeting her gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was a clarity she’d not seen before. He actually appeared sober.

  “I didn’t think you’d come.” He rose gingerly, wincing as he put weight on his right leg and limped toward the bars.

  Rick stepped back, with Dolly beside him. He was trying to give them some privacy but remained within earshot.

  “Part of the reason I came to Cape Hudson was to find out who my father was. And it appears that I have.”r />
  “One hell of a disappointment, I bet.”

  “I’ve heard so many versions from Beth of who you might have been that I wasn’t sure what to think.”

  “I didn’t used to be this guy. I was someone with real promise.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m not really sure. I guess I’d like to think knowing my name is not enough.”

  To say she felt sorry for him was an overstatement, but good or bad, she wanted to understand him. “What happened between you and Beth? Why did you hurt her?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It always got out of hand with us. If I was gasoline, she was the match.”

  “In the tapes she made with Mrs. B, there were bruises on her wrists.”

  “Like I said, we both weren’t good together.” He shook his head. “Did your mother ever talk about me when you were a kid?”

  “Not once. All her stories about who my father was were fantasies made up for her benefit as much as mine.”

  He shifted his weight, grimacing.

  “I heard you were in a car accident and messed up your knee.”

  He scratched the thick gray stubble on his chin. “It wasn’t a car accident. That’s what I told people. Beth’s the reason I lost it all.”

  She rose to her mother’s defense. “How is my mother to blame?”

  “I used to sneak over to the casinos in Maryland occasionally to have fun, blow off steam, but mostly to bet. The people I hung around with knew I was good for the money because I was a big-shot athlete from the area who had a full scholarship to play college football.” He shook his head. “You really want to hear about your old man? It doesn’t get better.”

  There was no bravado, and she suspected it was hard for him to peel back the anger and remember what he could have been. “I do.”

  “I was ten grand down and in deep trouble. The casino boss said I could settle my debt by shaving points on my games once I made varsity. They said they’d even throw in an allowance each month. I was naive and desperate, so I just went along with it.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Beth got really pissed. She was mad that I didn’t take her on the trip and called me a selfish dumbass. I got really pissed and told her I wasn’t sending a dime of my money to her or her brat kid.” He shook his head, like the retelling sounded worse out loud. “Like I said, it always got out of hand with Beth and me. I was cruel to her.”