At the Corner of King Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  A hint of a smile tweaked the edges of his mouth. “Glad to hear it.”

  A beat-up VW van rumbled onto the cul-de-sac and the driver ground a couple of gears as he downshifted and slowed.

  “That would be my crew,” Margaret said. “We’re going to dismantle the chimney carefully. We don’t want to wreck any historical findings.”

  Zeb rested a fist on his hip and looked at me. “We don’t have weeks to do this, Addie. I can stretch this to this afternoon, but my men have to grade the land tomorrow morning.”

  “Understood. Let me get the baby and Margaret and I’ll go visit with the land owner.”

  “You brought the baby?” Zeb said.

  “I didn’t have a choice. Grace won’t watch her.”

  “It’s going to get hot today.”

  “I know. But the truck has air-conditioning, and I’ll keep her out of the sun. I have a hat for her.”

  “Not really ideal, Addie.”

  “Doing the best I can, Zeb.” Irritated, I turned and went back to the truck and dug the baby sling out of the diaper bag. I hooked it over my arm and then, unfastening Carrie, slid her into the pouch.

  I came around the truck and Margaret and I walked to the front door. A large brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion glared at us, a large ring dangling from his mouth. I lifted the knocker and banged it against the door a couple of times.

  “I’m dying to know when this place was built,” Margaret said. “I’m betting 1820s or ’30s.”

  Inside the house, high-heeled footsteps clicked against a hardwood floor before the door snapped open to reveal a young woman. She was in her early thirties and her neat blond hair brushed her sharp jawline. A delicate strand of pearls hung around a pale slim neck above a cream-colored silk top that vanished under the waistband of a navy blue pencil skirt. Her legs were long and she wore no stockings. It wasn’t odd for women not to wear stockings this time of year but, for this woman, I guessed the move was more a silent rebellion than a nod to the heat. She wore no trace of makeup, but on her, added color would have looked garish.

  “I’m Dr. McDonald. May I help you?” she said.

  I shifted, doing my best to feel like a professional and not such a clumsy hack, which would be a neat trick with a kid dangling from around my neck. “My name is Addie Morgan and this is Margaret McCrae. We’re with Shire Architectural Salvage. And back on the street”—looking irritated, I thought—“that’s Zeb Talbot.”

  Dr. McDonald’s gaze flickered in Zeb’s direction. “I’ve worked with Mr. Talbot before. If you’ll follow the stone path around the side of the house, I’ll meet you in the backyard.”

  “Will do.”

  The heavy lacquer door closed, leaving the brass lion to glare at us. Margaret and I glanced at each other and followed the side pathway made of stone that cut through a tall stand of yellow dahlias. At first glance, the pattern appeared random, but a second take and I could see the root of each plant was spaced at equal distance. After the dahlias, clumps of hostas clustered around a tall wooden archway covered in a rich clinging vine of honeysuckle. Though most of the sweet buds were gone this time of year, the faintest trace of their scent hung in the air.

  In the backyard, Zeb’s red flagged stakes marked the outline of the new garage.

  Rae McDonald came out a side utility door. She’d changed her shoes into a set of more practical flats and easily crossed the neatly trimmed backyard toward us. She extended her hand and my gaze followed, settling on the stone hearth.

  The base was ten feet wide, and the stack rose up about ten feet in the air, though judging by the random stones scattered around the base, the original stood several feet taller.

  “My hope is to build the new garage on the back portion of the property, but I can’t do that with the fireplace there. I hate to remove it. It’s been there since I was a kid, but a couple of months ago it was struck by lightning and several stones were knocked loose. I’m not so sure how safe it is anymore, and I suppose it’s time to let it go.”

  “Do you know how long it’s been here?” Margaret asked.

  “My great-great-great-grandfather built this main house in 1815 and his diaries mention the ruins of the hearth.”

  “I’m surprised no one ever pulled it down before. That’s good stone,” Margaret said.

  The woman’s gaze remained fixed on the hearth. “Rumor has it in the family that the hearth was cursed. No one could say why, but all my ancestors assumed there’d be trouble if the hearth were destroyed.”

  “And you’re not worried?” I asked.

  A delicately plucked brow arched. “No. It was a nice conversation piece, but now it’s a safety hazard and it has to go.”

  Questions sparked in Margaret’s eyes. “Did your ancestors keep detailed diaries?”

  “Not really a diary, but there are letters and logbooks detailing the goings-on in the house and the area. The hearth was mentioned only once by my accounting.”

  Margaret tore her gaze from the stones. “I’m with the Archaeology Center. Would you ever allow me to look at those house accounts?”

  Dr. McDonald’s chest rose and fell with a delicate yet determined breath. “Not at this time.”

  The rebuff sent a cold bristle up my spine. Margaret’s smile froze. She opened her mouth to reply, but I quickly spoke up.

  “Ready to get started on the hearth?” I asked. Redirecting was a trick I used when my mother was ranting about anything and everything.

  Margaret nodded, seemingly soothed by the mystery that might lie before us. “We need to start at the top. If we do this right, I should photograph the site, and we should be numbering the pieces so that the next person who wants to reassemble can do it properly.”

  “A buyer will reconfigure them however they choose.”

  “Maybe, but having the history and the deconstruction documented will boost the price. This won’t be a pile of stones, but a chunk of living history.”

  Carrie fussed, but a pat to the bottom settled her. I understood the scope of the job and understood what it took to keep this kid happy, but I think I’d misjudged the toll juggling the two would take on me.

  “I’m going to get my camera,” Margaret said. “It’s in my purse in the truck, and if you don’t mind, I’ll dismantle this hearth. You can help, but my guys and I have done stuff like this before, and I want to see it done right.”

  Dependence was a slippery slope. Initially, help is a relief. The next day the hope for it is strong, but soon enough you grow to expect it. I didn’t want to rely on anyone. My mother taught me the downfall of dependence.

  “I can help.”

  “You can help by watching,” Margaret said, glancing at the baby pouch. “I know this is your company, and your job, and your gig, but history is my specialty. Give me a couple of hours to do this right.” She smiled. “Please. This is my passion and it’s almost my birthday.”

  “Really? When’s your birthday?”

  “Seven months.”

  Humor eased the sting, but it still hurt to accept help. “Happy Birthday.”

  Margaret dashed to her car and got her camera and sketchpad from her purse, leaving me with nothing to do and wondering why we were even here. The stones would fetch a thousand dollars, but they wouldn’t change much. Fixing the details of Janet’s and Carrie’s lives wasn’t as simple as harvesting hearthstones or launching a new wine. Check one item off the “to be fixed” list and it reappeared at the bottom of the list within minutes.

  Zeb walked up to me and stood with booted feet braced, much like the captain of an ancient sailing vessel. “I’ve got a couple of my men who can help with the stone removal.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said. “Thank you, but you’ve done enough.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  I glanced at the collection
of stones, weighing the debt of each one. “You sent this job to Grace. Even when she turned it down, you kept sending it to her.”

  “I was hoping it would excite her.”

  As much as I wanted to know what was going on with Grace, I couldn’t ask him.

  He stood silent, expectant, but when no question came, he nodded, almost relieved. He’d tried to help a Morgan woman before and was burned.

  Margaret stood in front of the stone hearth and snapped picture after picture, moving around it, studying it like a painter studied a masterpiece. Finally, after she took several dozen images, she pulled a sketchpad from her bag and began to draw and make notes.

  Dr. McDonald ran a finger along the strand of pearls circling her neck. “I thought you were going to carry them away. I didn’t think this was going to be such a project.”

  Addie Fixer of All Things smiled. “It won’t be long now. If we can document the removal, it will help us with resale.”

  Dr. McDonald watched curiously as Margaret gingerly touched a stone. “I’ve got a client coming in fifteen minutes. I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Oh, please go inside,” I said. “We’ll take care of this. I’ll come and get you when we’re finished.”

  “If you have any questions, ring the front doorbell. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “Will do.”

  I moved toward Margaret. “The client is restless. I think we’d better start moving rocks.”

  Margaret’s gaze lingered on the stone hearth another long moment before she shoved her pencil in her topknot. “Ready to roll.”

  Margaret and her workmen settled a ladder on the side of the hearth and began to chip away at the mortar. The mortar joining the stones, beaten and worn by the weather, crumbled easily, almost turning to dust in their hands. The top pieces all but fell into the workmen’s hands and they carefully began to stack the rocks in a wheelbarrow.

  Carrie fussed and pounded a tiny fist against me, expecting to be fed. I moved toward the truck and took one of the pre-mixed bottles and popped the top. I sat in the shade of an oak tree with the baby and fed her. “Carrie, be careful about needing too much. You can’t count on your mother and you can’t count on me.”

  She suckled, her eyes moving toward the sound of my voice.

  “I’m sorry, am I boring you? “

  Carrie grunted softly and kept eating.

  “No one seems to believe me when I say I’m not the person to fix all this. I’m not.”

  Carrie didn’t bother a glance or a sound as she ate. I watched the crew move quickly and efficiently with the stones. Zeb and his men, no longer willing to stand on the sidelines, transported the stones to the bed of my truck, moving as one unit. His operation was a well-oiled machine, whereas mine was working but was held together with bubble gum and string.

  Carrie finished her bottle easily. I burped her and changed her diaper before repositioning her back in the sling. She fell asleep, her face relaxed and peaceful.

  She was learning to depend on me. Learning to expect that when she cried I’d be there with a bottle, a clean diaper, or a soft word. My words of warning fell on deaf ears. I only hoped she would have someone she could really trust.

  An hour later, the chimney of the hearth was dismantled as well as half the base. The job I thought was out of reach this morning was nearly done.

  Margaret knelt in front of the hearth and then rose, waving me over. “Addie, come over here and see this. Very interesting.”

  I moved across the thick grass and, tucking my hand under the baby’s bottom, knelt. “What is it?”

  “Look inside the hearth.”

  I glanced at the stones long ago blackened by fires that kept a home warm. Weeds grew among the soot-stained stones, sticks blown in by wind clustered in a corner, and dozens of large ants scurried toward one of the cracks. Time never waited. “What am I looking for?”

  Margaret pulled a small flashlight from her back pocket and shone it in the corner. The light shimmered off a near-invisible surface. “See that?”

  “Yeah.” Cupping Carrie closer, I leaned in, feeling the same pull of energy felt years ago when I touched the key and more recently when I looked at the portrait in my room. Unsettled, I tensed. “What is it?”

  She reached in with a small stick and gently chipped away at the dirt around the object. Her hands moved methodically, reflecting the experience earned over a decade of dusting away the past. Slowly, the dirt fell away to reveal the shape of a bottle turned upside down in the dirt. With her fingertips, she scraped away more dirt until she was able to wrestle the bottle from the earth.

  Margaret slowly turned the bottle right side up. It was short, made of brown handblown glass, caked in dirt. The cork, blackened and coated with age and filth, was sealed in place by wax.

  “What’s that?”

  “Judging by the glass, I’m guessing it was made in the mid-seventeen hundreds, give or take a decade or two.”

  “That dates the fireplace.”

  “It does.” Margaret held the bottle up to the light and, as she moved, a metal-like object rattled inside. “This is truly amazing. I can barely breathe. I can’t wait to show the folks back at the center.”

  “Grace has a bottle like that.”

  “Like this?”

  “She calls hers a witch bottle.”

  “I think that’s what this is.” Margaret shook her head. “I doubt it’s as old as this one. We have only one or two in museums that have survived intact.”

  “Maybe hers isn’t so old, but they do look the same.” Carrie fussed and squirmed. “I should offer this to Dr. McDonald. We’re here to remove the stones. The rest really belongs to her.”

  Margaret frowned. “Can we just hang on to it for a few days? Give me a chance to figure out what it is. I’ll clean it up for her.”

  “I can’t, Margaret. I have to show it to her.”

  “Can I go with you? Maybe I could make a case for history and the center.”

  “She wasn’t open to sharing the ledgers.”

  Margaret pushed out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’ll be nice.”

  “Let me talk to her. I’m good at turning a no into a yes.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not possible to run a vineyard without getting a lot of personalities to work together.”

  Margaret pressed her hands together in prayer. “I would really like to study the bottle. You know my birthday is soon.”

  “Give me the bottle, Birthday Girl, and let me ask.”

  She reluctantly held it out to me. “I suspect you can be nicer than me.”

  The energy from the bottle all but hummed as I reached for it. For a moment, I hesitated to touch it. Finally, drawing in a breath, I wrapped my fingers around the bottle’s neck. An odd sense of unease shot up through my fingertips. Sadness and fear collided. My breath hitched.

  What the hell? I studied the simple bottle, half tempted to hand it back to Margaret. The same thing happened when I held Grace’s bottle.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “You’re pale.”

  The vibrations around the bottle waned, softened, and then vanished, leaving me to wonder again if magic or madness was at play. “Be right back.”

  Heading toward the house with the bottle in my right hand I was struck by its weight. Not that it was heavy or fully loaded, but it pulled toward the earth, seeming to wince against the bright light. The bottle was very similar to the one on Grace’s hearth.

  I knocked on the back door and seconds later heard the clip of high-heeled shoes. Dr. McDonald opened the door and the rush of cool air blended with her perfume and swirled around me. She glanced toward the hearth. “It appears to be almost done. Progress.”

  “Yes. We should be finished within the hour.” Ca
rrie squawked and squirmed. Patting her bottom, I held up the bottle. “We found this at the site.”

  Dr. McDonald took a step back and straightened. “What is that?”

  “An old bottle. Handblown. Margaret thinks seventeen hundred-ish.”

  Her noise wrinkled. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “We found it on your property. It belongs to you. I’m contracted to take the stones only.”

  Dr. McDonald’s gaze settled on the bottle and for a moment her eyes lingered. Her face paled as her fingers reached for the top button of her silk blouse. I was ready to hand it over to her when she shook her head. “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

  “You’re sure? It’s old and might be of value.” Carrie fussed louder, so I swayed, hoping the movement would lull her back to sleep. Her fussing slowed to grumbles.

  “I don’t want it. You’re welcome to it and whatever else you find by the stone hearth. Just get it all off my property.”

  “Okay.”

  Taking a step back, she stood rigid, her hand poised on the door. “Is that all?”

  “Yeah. Just wanted to check in about the bottle.”

  “Okay. Let me know when you’re finished.” She closed the door and the high heels clicked, growing more distant as the house swallowed her up.

  “Sure.”

  Margaret jogged across the lawn. “What did she say?”

  “She said we could keep it.” I handed it to Margaret. “And I’m giving it to you.”

  “Giving?” A million dollars in cash wouldn’t have made her happier.

  “The least I can do.”

  Margaret accepted the bottle and cradled it close to her chest. “This is so awesome.”

  “Happy Birthday.” I glanced at Carrie and discovered she’d found her thumb. I was fairly sure in some baby book it warned that this was not good, but the kid sucked greedily, and I sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell her she couldn’t enjoy comfort when she found it.

  Margaret held the bottle to the light, but caked dirt and mold blocked us from seeing through it. She gently jostled it and again we heard the clink of something inside. “If I find out any information about the bottle, do you want me to tell you about it?”