When Addie didn’t expound, I decided to drop the line of conversation. I cleared my throat. “I’m here because I got a call from Margaret about a bottle.”
“Ah, the bottle. Margaret is my new business partner and she’s now on a mission to find out all she can about three witch bottles.”
“Witch bottles?”
“You haven’t heard about them?”
“No. Sorry.”
Shaking her head, Addie began to rock back and forth while patting the baby’s back. “Basically, there were three women who lived in Alexandria around 1750. They each made these bottles as a kind of protection spell against a woman who they thought was a witch.”
“Wow, that’s a story.”
“Margaret is determined to dig up every detail she can about the three women. She’s reached out to the McDonalds and now you.”
The bells jingled and I turned to see a woman with strawberry-blond hair enter. She wore jeans, a loose-fitting shirt, bracelets, and flip-flops. She was carrying two cups of coffee.
“Speak of the devil,” Addie said.
Margaret raised one of the coffee cups to her lips and swallowed quickly, her brows rising as she smiled. “Hey, Lisa. That was quick.”
“I was close by.”
Margaret handed Addie the second cup of coffee and waved her hand around the shop. “Welcome to the past.”
Addie laughed. “I can attest to that.”
“Now,” Margaret said, “if you talk to my sisters who work at the Union Street Bakery, they’ll tell you I’m the biggest slacker they’ve ever met. I haven’t met a bakery deadline I could keep.”
My blood pressure dropped as I stood here listening to Margaret launch into a story about boxing mail orders through the bakery and how Satan invented the clear packing tape that always ended up in a useless wad. Honestly, I was happy to be here, away from the solitude of the Prince Street house.
Margaret clapped her hands together. “But you don’t want to hear me go on and on about shipping labels and box sizes. What do you have for me?”
Moving toward the front counter, I pulled out the baby book. “My aunt Amelia told me about it. She says her birth mother made it for her.” Hesitating, I wondered if I’d spoken out of turn, but I knew if I didn’t operate as an open book we might not find out about Fiona. “The other day she told me for the first time she was adopted. But you should also know my aunt has the onset of Alzheimer’s. She was having a really good day when we had our visit and discussed the book.”
“So Fiona McDonald was Amelia’s birth mother?” Margaret asked.
“It appears so.”
“And you and Rae have talked about Fiona?”
How to explain without all the drama? “Our families go way back. She asked about Amelia and I told her about the book.”
Margaret stilled. “Did you know Jennifer McDonald?”
“I did,” I said, cautious now.
Margaret offered, “After I left Rae’s today, I got to thinking and remembered her older sister died in a car accident when she was a teenager.”
“That was sixteen years ago.”
“Right. I must have been away at college and recalled Mom talking about it.” Margaret focused her attention to the worn, faded silk binding of the book. “What can you tell me about this book?”
“Not much, other than what I saw when I leafed through it,” I said.
Margaret tugged on white gloves and carefully opened the front of the book with deliberate slowness that belied her crazy curly hair pulled up in a ponytail and her brightly colored peasant top. She studied the book. “I can tell Rae’s smart. Though I’ll never understand how she got into matchmaking.”
“McDonald women never admit to being matchmakers.”
“So, it’s true?” Margaret asked.
“It’s just known,” I said. “Every woman in the McDonald family was a matchmaker. They never really had to advertise it.”
Addie moved closer, her head cocked with interest. “A family of matchmakers.”
Margaret lifted her gaze. “I’ve been reading her ancestors’ letters and there’s no mention of matchmaking, though she often mentions the marriages of local couples. One letter goes into great detail about a lavish wedding.”
“Which generation are you reading about?”
“Oh, Patience McDonald, the first McDonald woman to arrive in Virginia. In fact, she knew your ancestor, Mistress Smyth. You said you didn’t know much about your family?”
“Afraid not,” I said. “I damn near failed history in high school.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “My God, woman, how could you come close to failing history? It’s a no-brainer.”
Spontaneous laughter rumbled in my chest. “I was a master at mucking up the most basic subjects in high school. Mostly Cs and Ds in English and Spanish.”
“Not the studious type.”
“No. Art was my passion.”
“Really?” Addie asked. “What kind of art?”
“Photography.”
“Right,” Margaret said. “When we were cleaning out your basement, we saw the images. You use a bellows camera.”
“I’m impressed. I do.”
“Now, if you must forsake your history studies for a bellows camera, I might be willing to forgive you. I love the richness of the prints created by that kind of work. Would you take my picture sometime?”
“You figure out what happened to Fiona and it’s a deal.” I gave her a quick recap of Fiona’s two husbands and the infant she gave away.
“Like I said on the phone, I did a quick search after I left Rae’s,” Margaret said. “Fiona lost her first husband, moved to D.C. for five or six years, and sang in nightclubs. When she returned to Alexandria, she was married to a gentleman named David Saunders. They lived on Washington Street and had one daughter, Diane, who very oddly, would have been Rae and Jennifer’s mother.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling random pieces assembling. “Diane. Rae is so much like her.”
“Rae’s mom was a bit cold as well?”
“Yes. She always kept her emotions under lock and key.”
“She was a matchmaker like Rae?”
“So the legend goes.”
“Wow.” Margaret studied the pages of the book and reached for her phone. “Mind if I photograph the pages? I’d like to keep a record handy while I do some searches. May I tell people about the adoption?”
“At this point, sure. Better she knows the full story of her life.”
“Great.”
Meanwhile, Addie was studying the keychain dangling from my finger and recognized the sobriety chips. “You said you met Janet at an AA meeting?”
“Yes. I’m an alcoholic.” I’d stopped hiding my disease long ago. It was easier to be open about it all than carry the weight of half-truths and lies. But not everyone talked openly about their meetings.
“How long have you been sober?”
“Over a dozen years.”
“Damn, you developed a problem fairly young.” Margaret didn’t hide her surprise.
“I did.” I slid my hands into the front pockets of the jeans. “No sense beating around the bush. I was in the car with Jennifer McDonald when it crashed. She died and I couldn’t handle it. I started drinking heavily. It was either AA or the grave.”
“That’s a huge success,” Addie said. “How have you kept with it so long?”
Having stepped back from the brink of total failure only hours ago, I didn’t feel like a success. “One hour at a time.”
Addie’s smile was kind. “I hope you and Janet will get to know each other. You would be an inspiration to her.”
Margaret scribbled several names as she studied the book. “The initial handwriting is bold and dark, suggesting a man. Halfway through, the
handwriting becomes distinctly feminine. That would support that Jeffrey stopped participating when your aunt was about five months old.”
Margaret turned a page, studying the woman’s shaky handwriting. “There’s a notation here: Can a woman and baby alone make a home?”
Addie rubbed Carrie’s back. “Good question. I worry about that all the time.”
Margaret shook her head. “You’re all the home that kid needs. But Fiona would have been a single mother in the early 1940s. If you didn’t have money or strong family ties, it was a great deal harder. My question is, why didn’t the McDonald family embrace her? She was married to their son and she gave birth to his child. Where was her family?”
“I don’t know any of that,” I said. “And Amelia’s mind is no longer sharp. The fact we had any kind of conversation about this is nearly a miracle.”
Margaret nodded. “Not to worry. I’m on the job. I’ll figure it out.” She carefully closed the book. “Can I hold on to this for a day or two?
“Sure. Any information you can find out about Fiona would be great. It would mean a lot to Amelia and me.”
The corner of Margaret’s mouth hitched into a grin. “I’m on it.”
August 1, 1753
Dearest Mother,
A stranger came to visit today, a traveller headed to Alexandria. He had heard of Faith’s healing powers and asked her to make an elixir for his gout. When he spied the children in the cottage, Mr. McDonald introduced Marcus as Faith’s son and Patrick as our son. Faith directed an angry glare toward Mr. McDonald, who looked back at her, unflinching. Faith didn’t speak up but she turned sullen. I do not understand what transpired, nor do I care. It was such fun to have a visitor and hear of news from the city. The price of tobacco is on the rise and the Alexandria city leaders are building a large pier that will allow the tall ships to dock at the shore. The Indians continue to cause trouble in the west and there is talk that the king will send troops to put down the troublemakers. Mr. McDonald was pleased by the news about the dock and spoke of one day building a bigger, grander house that will stand as a testament to the McDonald clan.
—P
Chapter Eight
Rae McDonald
THURSDAY, AUGUST 18, 2:00 P.M.
The rain cleared, but the air remained heavy with moisture when I rose from my desk overlooking the bare spot in my backyard. I’d just completed several reports for my family practice clients, which capped off a highly productive day. I still hadn’t summoned the courage to write a response to Michael’s e-mail.
Margaret’s words rattled in my head. Daisy doesn’t talk about it much, but it hurts her. I mean, how hard could it be to return an e-mail?
Was Michael waiting by his computer, wondering if I didn’t care? Was he upset with me?
The idea of his pain sent me shrinking deeper and deeper into work and farther away from any thoughts of him. He had a mother who loved him very much. I had met Susan and her husband, Todd, when I was pregnant. Knowing adoption was my only choice, I insisted that I meet the couple that would raise my child. My mother thought it was a bad idea and didn’t want to deal with the child’s real family, as she called it, but I insisted.
I remember Susan was nervous. Her smile was bright and welcoming, but her hand shook a little as she extended it to me. Her grasp was firm, her touch warm.
“The prenatal checkup went well.” My mother spoke clearly to Susan and Todd as I sat, unable to speak. “She didn’t see a doctor in the first two trimesters of her pregnancy, but he has since examined her completely and said she and the child are in perfect health.”
Susan observed everything she could about me. Maybe documenting it for the boy one day. Several times she looked at my very round belly, but she did her best to engage me in conversation so I felt included, rather than just an incubator.
“And as you know, the child is a boy,” Mom said.
Susan grinned, her eyes moistening with tears as she took her husband’s hand.
I rested my hands over my belly. My child. My flesh. My son.
“Rae,” Susan said softly. “I brought you a gift.”
“A gift. Why?”
She pulled a scrapbook from her purse. It was covered in rich leather and embossed with strands of ivy in each corner. “It’s not much. It’s a scrapbook that has a few pictures of Todd and me.”
I opened the book to a picture of the smiling couple with a large black Labrador retriever sitting between them. The sun shone behind the trio. Their life appeared so blessed.
Carefully, I turned the pages, viewing one happy scene after another. It was bittersweet. I was happy for them and Michael but wondered why it couldn’t have been me. I closed the book and absently traced the ivy corners with my fingertips.
“That book is full of pictures of us and our house,” she said, pulling out a second scrapbook. “But this one is empty and will be filled with pictures of the baby as he grows up. I promise you I’ll send pictures as often as you like. I want you to know that we’ll love him with all our heart. You are also now a part of our family.”
I opened the book and leafed through the empty pages. Memories I would never experience. “Why do you want him?”
Todd took Susan’s hand. “We can’t have children.”
Susan’s lips didn’t tremble when she smiled, but I sensed the nervousness. “We tried and tried. In vitro. It all failed.” She leaned forward, taking my hand again. “The chances of me carrying a baby to term are nearly impossible now.”
And I’d gotten pregnant without a single thought.
“I want to be a mother, Rae. Biology doesn’t matter to me.”
The boy was mine and I was giving him away. I cleared my throat. “His name will be Michael. They told you that, right?”
“They did,” Susan said, wiping away a tear. “And it’s a great name. I think I’ve practiced it about a thousand times in the last few days.”
I smoothed my hand over my rounded curves. “You really think you can love Michael?”
Susan raised clasped hands to her heart. “I already do, Rae. There are moments when I think I’ve been waiting for him for a lifetime.” She swallowed emotion, tightening her throat. “And I want to be a mom so badly. I’m sorry if I sound a little emotional.”
Outside, the crunch of truck tires on gravel pulled me from the past. I blinked, chasing away the memories and grabbing onto the present. A car door closed. That would be Zeb, here to discuss the new office. Only now, I wasn’t so sure it should be an office. A guest cottage might make more sense.
My doorbell rang, the chime vibrating through the house. Straightening my shoulders, I moved down the center hallway to the door and opened it.
Zeb stood in the doorway, one hand on a roll of building plans and the other on the shoulder of a young boy standing beside him. The boy could have been Zeb as a child. Dark hair the color of coffee, square shoulders, and curious dark eyes that stared up at me with a boldness uncommon for a child that age.
“This is my son, Eric,” Zeb said. “I hope you don’t mind, but he’s running errands with me this afternoon.”
The boy was about seven, and immediately, I compared him to my boy. What had he looked like at that age? Though Michael’s mother had faithfully sent me pictures over the years, I never opened one envelope. As curious as I was, I always sensed if I really understood what I was missing as a mother, my heart would break and I would never be able to recover. But I also dared not throw them away. So I carefully filed all the unopened letters in a box and stored them with the scrapbook in the top of my bedroom closet.
“No, that’s fine. Please come inside.”
At the threshold, they carefully wiped their feet before stepping inside.
“Why don’t we sit in the kitchen?” I asked. “Margaret McCrae brought by cookies, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to eat them al
l.” Boys like sweets, don’t they?
Eric glanced up at Zeb and grinned.
“That sounds great,” Zeb said.
“I like cookies from the Union Street Bakery,” Eric said. “Dad and I go there a lot on Saturdays. Margaret is funny.”
“She’s very entertaining,” I said.
“And I play with Anna and Ellie sometimes.”
Ah, Margaret’s nieces. And the single sister. Rachel, was it? I wondered how Zeb and Rachel would fare if paired. Two single parents. Business owners. Well liked. They aligned without much effort.
We moved to the bright lights of the kitchen. I retrieved the bag of cookies from the refrigerator as well as the half quart of milk. “Do you drink milk, Eric?”
“I do.”
“Have a seat on one of the stools and I’ll pour you a glass.” In the reflection of the cabinet, I saw Eric hop up on the stool and settle his bottom on the chair.
“The kitchen looks good,” Zeb said. “Had any issues with it?”
“No. You did a great job.” I set a plate and a glass of milk in front of Eric.
He ran his hand over the white marble of the island. “I remember this gave us fits. We had a heck of a time finding a slab big enough but also with the right shades.”
I set up the coffeemaker and turned it on. “I never knew there were so many decisions.”
“But you got what you wanted in the end.”
“Of course.” I didn’t bother with sugar because I remembered Zeb never took it in his coffee. He and his crews had worked in this kitchen for months two summers ago. Many a morning during the construction phase I brewed coffee for him and his men in a makeshift kitchen setup in the dining room.
Eric reached for a chocolate chip cookie and took a big bite. “Margaret says you should start every day with a cookie. She says she could eat cookies for all her meals.”
“Cookies aren’t a major food group,” I said.
Zeb grinned. “That’s what I keep trying to tell Eric. But so far, Margaret’s winning the argument.”
Margaret traveled from job to job like a gypsy and she would be the first to admit she made a meager income. Dizzying professional highs and lows were the norm for her, but as much as I searched for a fault in her approach to life, she squeezed so much joy out of living. It was a talent I’d long ago forgotten.
The View from Prince Street Page 12