The View from Prince Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “I do have appointments today. How does tomorrow look?”

  She pumped her fisted hands in the air before quickly folding them in her lap as, no doubt, Addie had counseled her to do. “That would work.”

  “We have a salvage job in Prince William County in the morning,” Addie said.

  “Right, the old church. How does afternoon sound?” Margaret asked me.

  “That would be acceptable.” I imagined all the meticulously stored boxes that had belonged to generations of McDonalds. Even if we didn’t care about the past, we were careful scribes of the present. “Four o’clock?”

  “Done,” Margaret said.

  The doorbell rang and I was relieved to end the conversation. “That’s my contractor. We need to go over the plans for the garage.”

  Addie rose, cradling the baby’s bottom with her hand. “You’re using Zeb Talbot?”

  “Correct.”

  “I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks,” Addie said. “I know he’s been busy with his son, and work.”

  From what little Zeb had said, I knew that Addie and Zeb were once related by marriage through Addie’s sister, Janet. Janet was Carrie’s mother but also the mother of Zeb’s seven-year-old son, Eric. Mental illness prevented Janet from parenting her children, but she was trying to maintain her fragile hold on sanity and be in their lives as best she could.

  Zeb put on his best face when he spoke of Janet, and I sensed he and Addie were a united front in their love for the children. In fact, they made sense as a couple.

  Margaret stood and I could see she was already counting the minutes until she could examine the documents. Though her enthusiasm could be annoying, I admired her passion. “See you tomorrow. Four o’clock sharp.”

  We walked to the front door, past an oil landscape that depicted Alexandria after the War of 1812. Margaret paused to study the painting, almost unaware of the present around her. “This is an amazing painting,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

  “It’s been in the family for centuries,” I said. How many times had I passed the painting and not even tossed it a glimpse?

  For the first time in a very long while, I studied the soft brush strokes of the English painter commissioned by a McDonald to capture the city that this clan now proudly claimed as home.

  Gone were the sweeping concrete skylines that trailed along Duke and King Streets, the eight lanes of the Beltway that wrapped around the city, and the roar of planes landing at Reagan National Airport. Instead, the painter had captured tall ships anchored in a harbor transformed by settlers who sheered off the cliffs and created a gentle slope to the waterline and a larger commercial waterfront. At the water’s edge, a collection of warehouses and brick townhomes clustered close to the north shore. In the middle ground, sprawling brick and wooden homes were surrounded by wide swaths of land, enclosed by split rail fence. In the distance, Shuter’s Hill had not yet become home to the tall stone spire of the Masonic Temple that was built in the 1920s. In the painting, Shuter’s Hill sported a single plantation, known today as the Mills/Lee/Dulaney house. This elegant Italian mansion was built in the late eighteenth century and owned by three prominent Alexandria businessmen over a fifty-year span, until fire destroyed it.

  “This is amazing,” Margaret breathed as Addie tugged her arm, pulling her closer to the door.

  “You can look at the painting later, Margaret. I need to feed Carrie.” Addie looked at me with a rueful grin. “Carrie is not a happy camper if she doesn’t eat on time.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.” The sound of a baby’s cry always triggered visions of an awkward teen mother trying to soothe a child who sensed her lack of will to fight for him.

  I opened the door to find that the heavy rain had yielded to a fine mist. A very tall man with wide shoulders and closely cropped black hair peppered with strands of white at the temples filled the doorway. My contractor, Zeb Talbot, wore a red T-shirt with Talbot Construction printed over the breast pocket, jeans, and well-worn work boots recently brushed clean of dirt. Long, weathered hands wrapped around the rolled-up plans for my new garage.

  “Mr. Talbot,” I said, feeling an odd sense of relief. “I believe you know Addie Morgan and Margaret McCrae.”

  He looked past me and nodded to the women behind me. “Addie and Margaret, what brings you out here?”

  “Historical riches,” Margaret said.

  “The McDonald papers,” I amended. “Ms. McCrae is doing research on the witch bottles she found when the hearth was removed.”

  “Ah, the witch bottles.” He grinned at Addie. “Casting more spells these days?”

  Addie’s laugh was easy and relaxed. “Every chance I get.”

  “Do not mock our kinfolk,” Margaret said. “These bottles are a time capsule into the lives of women who dared to cross the Atlantic and make the wilderness their home.”

  Addie tugged Margaret’s arm. “Save the lectures, professor. We need to prep for tomorrow’s demo and I have to feed the kid before she blows.”

  “We’re dismantling windows in an old church in Prince William,” Margaret added. “The church was built in 1922. I can already tell you more about it than you’d ever want to know.”

  Addie pushed Margaret past Zeb and me. “We can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  Margaret, sensing she was pressing her luck, went to the door. “Another fascinating tale but I’ll save that for our ride south tomorrow.”

  Carrie squawked and I tensed.

  “Addie, the baby has been sleeping the whole time, which means she’ll blow in less than twenty minutes,” Margaret said.

  “You two make her sound like a bomb,” I said.

  Addie rubbed the baby’s back with a mother’s affection. “She can be vocal when she’s hungry, and it’s nice not to be stuck in traffic when she wakes up. Dr. McDonald, thank you for your time.”

  As the two women hurried past Zeb, Addie nudged him affectionately and he tossed her a grin that I couldn’t judge as either romantic or brotherly. I watched as Margaret leaned close to Addie and said in a voice that carried a bit more than she realized, “‘Heart of stone’ fits.”

  Addie replied with a frown and shoved Margaret closer to the privacy of the beat-up Shire Architectural Salvage truck.

  Zeb’s expression hardened, a clear indication he’d heard as well. “Sorry about that. Margaret can be a whirlwind.”

  I had mastered the art of not hearing from my mother. We McDonald women did an excellent job of ignoring what didn’t suit our immediate purposes. “I missed it altogether. Please come inside.”

  Tapping the roll of plans on his leg, he paused at the front door, wiped off his boots, and entered the hallway. “Once this rain lets up and the ground dries, we can get started on the garage. It’s been one of the wettest seasons on record, and I’ve shifted all my men to indoor jobs. It has to let up soon.”

  The rain had fallen at a steady beat for six weeks. The soil was waterlogged, the river high and fast, and the skies forever dreary and gray. “The last clear day I can remember was the day Addie and Margaret removed the stones from the land.”

  “I wonder if Margaret has made the connection,” Zeb said. “She’s sure to link it to the bottles.”

  “It’s an odd coincidence but a coincidence nonetheless. The removal of the stones certainly could not be associated with the weather.”

  “You might be interested to know that those stones were sold to a family in Loudoun County. They built an exterior hearth with it.”

  “Hopefully they built it a safe distance from their main house.” I shared the somewhat irrational inside thought before I realized it.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked. My comment had piqued his attention, as if this were his first glimpse into personal quirks that simmered below the surface.

  “
The cinders from the original hearth burned the first McDonald home. Family lore states it was struck by lightning on a clear day.”

  “Fire was a constant threat in those days and for the next century,” Zeb said. “Homes were built of highly combustible material due to cost. To add insult to injury, the fire department would let your house burn down if you didn’t show proof of having bought fire insurance.”

  “Fires still happen.”

  He cocked his head, sensing that a small door had opened and trying to peer inside. “Are you afraid of fires, Dr. McDonald?”

  I found holding eye contact with his clear gaze a challenge. “I have a healthy respect for them.”

  “I’ve noticed you’ve installed double the usual number of smoke detectors in this house. And the fireplace in your office hasn’t been used in years.”

  “Those are odd details to notice.”

  “I’m a contractor, Dr. McDonald.”

  “It’s an old home and it’s also my place of business. The extra smoke detectors defray some of the cost of insurance. And I’ve no need to burn a fire. It’s inefficient and messy.”

  He studied me, and I sensed that if we’d met as two people in a social setting, he would have pressed the issue. But he was too professional to dig deeper. “Understood.”

  I held out my hand, indicating a round table nestled under the large window that overlooked the raw patch of yard. Hard now to remember what it looked like dry.

  We both sat and he carefully removed the rubber band from the roll of plans and unfurled them. “I’ve made the changes you requested and expanded the attic for extra storage space. You also asked for an estimate to convert the top space into storage space.”

  Carefully, I traced the lines depicting the new storage space. “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ll have a need for more storage.”

  “What about an apartment? You mentioned that once.”

  “Not a bad idea . . .”

  He rolled his head slightly to the side, unwinding tension. “If you ever have family that visits, an apartment would be ideal.”

  “I’m the last of the McDonalds.”

  The subtle scent of his soap mingled with the smell of rain. “You’re the last McDonald?”

  Ten generations of McDonalds had lived in Alexandria, and each generation saw the survival of only one or two McDonalds. With my sister’s passing sixteen years ago, I became the last in the clan.

  The last female.

  There was the boy, of course, but I had surrendered all claims to him when he was just hours old. Yes, I was thirty-two and capable of having more children, but I wouldn’t. I’d squandered my chance at motherhood when given the chance. I could have fought for him, but I hadn’t.

  “I’m the last McDonald and have no real need for an apartment. But I’m considering turning the space into an office. It would be nice to have some separation from this house—too much time is spent here.”

  He scratched the side of his head. “An office?”

  “Correct.”

  “If you’ve a mind to do that, then it makes sense to rough in Internet and more electrical outlets.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “It will be some added cost.”

  “I understand. Perhaps you could also draw up a plan that breaks the space into two areas—one designed for reception and the other for my office.”

  “There will be another delay while I draw up the design.”

  “What’s a few days with more rain moving our direction?” I reasoned.

  “I don’t mind making the changes, but this will be your third set. You sure you even want a garage out back?”

  He was intuitive. Lately, I wasn’t as certain about the addition. I wasn’t sure why I was unsettled about the plans that had been so clear only about a month ago. “Better to make the changes now than later when it will be far more expensive.”

  The sun-etched lines feathering from the corners of his eyes deepened as he squinted. “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

  I traced the edge of the plans. “Thank you. I appreciate your good work.”

  As I walked him out to the front door, he paused, the plans held tightly in his hands. “That was a nice piece they wrote on you in the paper. Never occurred to me you were a matchmaker. I figured you were some kind of family counselor.”

  “I’m not a matchmaker.” I readied for a joke about my heart of stone. “But I’ve seen too many couples make tragic mistakes, so I offer sound advice.”

  He had the ability to look at me with an unwavering—and somewhat unsettling—intensity. “The article says you’ve matched up dozens of couples.”

  “Not really matched.”

  “How many?” he pressed.

  “Two dozen.”

  “The newspaper article said that you have a ninety-two percent success rate. What happened to the other eight percent?”

  “One divorced. They were not entirely truthful during their sessions with me. The other is in counseling.”

  “Impressive statistic,” he said as he opened the front door. “Can’t argue with it. I could have used your advice before I married, but then if I hadn’t married Janet, I wouldn’t have Eric. Sometimes mistakes carry blessings with them, I suppose.”

  If I could take back my mistakes and wish away the boy, would I?

  Would I wish away the boy?

  Hell, no.

  The answer came loud and clear. “I suppose you’re right.”

  He jabbed his thumb toward his truck. “Which reminds me, I have something for you. It’s in the truck.”

  Zeb jogged to the truck, his long legs crossing the drenched walkway easily, opened the passenger side, and tossed in his plans as he reached across his seat. A quick jog back and he held out a rock to me.

  I took the smooth stone from his callused palm. “What’s that?”

  “It’s from your hearth. One of your rocks. The mason had a handful of rocks that didn’t quite work and were tossed aside. I loaded up what he didn’t want and thought of you when I saw this one.”

  The stone was lighter than I expected and had an irregular surface, with a vein of gray running through the center. But it wasn’t the texture that caught my attention as I turned it over, rather its shape. There was no doubt about its shape. A heart.

  “Ah.” Margaret’s earlier parting comment barely registered with me, but this cold rock jabbed sharply in my stomach. “A stone heart.”

  “I had read the article just a couple of days before I visited the job site in Loudoun County.”

  I traced a small center crack with my thumb. “And you thought of me.”

  “You have to admit, for a rock it’s an odd shape.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “You don’t like it.” He shifted his stance. “I didn’t mean it that way. I thought you would find it amusing.”

  “It is amusing.” Was he making fun of me or giving me a memento of a family relic? I tightened my grip on the rock. “I’m sure I’ll be getting a lot of mementos like this in the future. Perhaps I should incorporate the image into my logo.”

  He studied the stone and then my expression, which I purposefully kept neutral. “They have it wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “Your heart isn’t stone.”

  “I come from a long line of women like me. We might begin our lives as emotional creatures but we always end up the same.” I held up the rock. “With one of these.”

  “Why is that?”

  How many times had I asked the question of my mother? “I’m sure there’s some genetic anomaly.”

  “Have you ever tried to break the cycle?”

  Carefully, I shook my head. “I can see you’re a good man, Zeb. You care about people and you want to fix their lives as easily as you
restore an old building or build a new structure. But sometimes a person has to go it alone to find their own way.” He looked as though he’d say more. “Thank you.” I turned to my house and slowly closed the front door.

  Long seconds passed before I heard the engine turn over and the sound of Zeb slowly driving away. Letting my head fall back against the door, I pressed the stone to my chest and allowed the cold weight to seep through my silk blouse to my skin, remembering back to the last bittersweet moment I felt pure love and pain: the moment I laid the boy in another mother’s arms.

  November 6, 1751

  Dearest Mother,

  The morning sun peeked above the horizon as I watched Faith swaddle the freshly fed babes in thick wool blankets and lay them carefully on the blankets near the fire. As much as I feared her, I must confess that I was drawn to the babes. My breasts still heavy with milk, I ached to hold my lost children in my arms again. When she caught me staring, she said, “I prayed never to leave the loving embrace of my intended, Mr. Talbot, but the fates stole him and my happiness. Here I am again braving not the vast seas but the thick wilderness.” Her barely whispered words gave me the courage to ask why she chose to return to our farm. “It is all I know. And if not for the babes, I would not be here.” Mr. McDonald came in the room at that moment and saw us staring at each other. Uneasy, he looked me in the eyes and said, “She needs us.” When I rose off my bed to argue he said, “You’re unwell. You need her. I need her. Like it or not, we are all bound.”

  —P

  Chapter Two

  Lisa Smyth

  MONDAY, AUGUST 15, 2:00 P.M.

  Years of living on the open road had dulled my memories of Northern Virginia rush-hour traffic. One look at my watch and I remembered that the rush of cars and drivers clogging the Beltway that encircled Washington, D.C., started as early as two thirty in the afternoon. With so much humanity crammed into a small space, it was a wonder anyone accomplished much. As I inched along the southern side of the Beltway, I regretted my late start. Rookie mistake.

  But the noon AA meeting had lasted longer than expected and I’d lingered. I, Lisa Smyth, needed an extra dose of support. I quickly hurried by the Prince Street house and collected my aunt’s dog, Charlie, a seven-year-old chocolate Lab. We took a quick spin around the block before I put him in the car and we made the trip to the nursing home.