“Sure, I’m in.”
June 15, 1751
I met Mistress Smyth at the market today. Mistress Smyth looks well and we spoke of my child and the babe in her belly. We blessed God for our good health.
When Faith passed us by, I whispered that Dr. Goodwin believes it’s a sin to relieve labor pains given to virtuous women for the sins of Eve. He suspects she practices magic. Mistress Smyth attached great interest to my words and asked me to explain. I mentioned Faith uses herbs but I didn’t dare mention that Faith did the same for me, or that my connection to Faith extends as deep as blood.
Chapter Eighteen
Up early the next morning, I made a half dozen bottles for Carrie and left a stack of diapers and clean clothes by the crib. By the time Grace rose, the baby was also fed, changed, and sleeping in her crib, and I was excited and grateful for a hard day of labor away from this place.
“If you need me, Grace, I’m only blocks away and will have my cell phone.”
She cradled a cup close to her chest, drawing comfort from the warmth. “We survived when you went to that vineyard place. We can survive a day here.”
“She should sleep for a couple of hours.”
“You told me.”
“Plenty—”
Grace held up a hand. “I know. Diapers. Bottles. Clothes. Got it. Go. I’m curious to hear what you find in the house on Prince Street. I suspect it will be good. The back of my head is itching.”
A half smile tipped the edge of my lips. “I forgot that. How your head itches before a demo.”
“Not any demo. Just the really good ones. Now you better get going. That Margaret will be champing at the bit. Girl’s got a thing for all this.”
“She does. She knows it better than I could ever hope to.”
Grace sipped her coffee. “You’re better at this than you’re willing to admit.”
“I noticed the stones are gone from the truck. Where are they?”
“Zeb found a buyer,” she said. “They came by last night while you were at the bakery.”
“That’s awesome. Who?”
“Couple in Loudoun County wants to build an outdoor grill. They loved the idea of history.”
“Well, it’s kind of being repurposed for a use that’s historical. The stones held plenty of fires and cooked lots of meals.”
“They’ve promised to send pictures when the project is done.”
“I want to see them.”
“Why?” Grace fished in her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.
“I like it when an old item gets a new life.”
Grace grunted. “This is the money from the sale. You can pay Margaret and her helpers.”
The roll of bills felt dense. “How much did the stones earn?”
“Enough to pay off Margaret, the guys, and a little extra for formula.”
“Formula.” Laughter rumbled in my chest. “Good-bye, disposable income.”
Grace grunted. “Better get going.”
“Right.” I shoved the money in my pocket and hurried to find Margaret leaning against the truck, arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed, and her face tipped toward the sun.
“Sorry, I’m late.” I jerked open the driver’s side door.
“I’m trying to look calm. Not scream, ‘Hurry up!’”
I slid behind the wheel and shoved my keys in the ignition. “You’re doing a good job.”
“It’s hard. Believe me.” Bracelets rattled as she opened the door and hopped into the front seat. “Hey, what’s that hanging from your key ring?”
I glanced at the ring and noticed the key hanging on the chain. “I found it here at the yard. I tucked it in my pocket thinking I’d ask Grace about it but I forgot. When I realized I took it, I just kept it.”
She leaned over and fingered the key. “Very old. I’d say eighteenth century.”
“I never really thought about the age.” I studied the irregular heart shape at the end of the key. “I was just drawn to it.”
“Totally cool.” She settled back in her seat. “I wonder what it opens.”
“I have no idea.”
I fired up the engine and backed the large truck out of the space. As the crow flies, the trip to the jobsite was less than a half mile, but it took a few passes around the block before parking opened up on the street, and I was able to edge the truck into two spots fifteen paces from the house.
“My guys should be meeting us here,” Margaret said as she typed on her phone’s keypad. “Parking.”
“Great.” I reached for my go-bag, filled with essentials including a camera, measuring tape, duct tape, hammer, screwdrivers, and trash bags. A little careful prechecking meant less damage to the items during removal. Nothing sadder than seeing a hand-carved piece of trim splinter when ripped from the ceiling.
We made our way down the cobblestone street to number seven. It was a three-story brick town house with a black wrought-iron hand railing. The front door was solid mahogany with inlaid handblown windows at the top. A large door handle was set below waist level.
“I’m a geek,” I said.
Margaret rested her hands on her hips. “How so?”
“Because I noticed that that doorknob is brass, handmade, and period eighteen hundred,” I said. “And it’s also much lower than the modern-day doorknobs because people were shorter then.”
“I’m grooving on the handblown glass windows and this front door. It’s stunning,” Margaret said.
“Think it’s original?”
“If it’s not, it was made very close to the time.”
I ran my hand over the railing. “How much would this house cost today?”
“Million and a half. More.” She touched the lacquered front door. “I can only dream about living in a place like this.”
I watched as her gaze swept over the house, much like a woman in love looked at a lover. “Do you need a moment alone?”
Her gaze danced with laughter. “Just a few.”
A retort formed on my lips when we heard footsteps in the main hallway and the door snapped open. Standing before us was a young woman with white-blond hair, pale skin, and a petite frame. She was dressed in a black cotton sleeveless top, dark pants made of a light fabric, and red flats. Her clothes were simple but she possessed an elegance that, honestly, made me feel a tad clunky.
“Hi, I’m Addie Morgan with Shire Salvage. And this is Margaret McCrae. We’re here to look at the items you have in your basement.”
The woman’s gaze skittered between the two of us and then settled on me. “Yes. Right. I’m Lisa Smyth.”
Lisa couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, which led me to wonder how she came to own such an old and expensive home. Family money? Internet sensation? Inventor of one of those gadgets you see on late-night television? Sold soul?
“I understand you’re renovating the basement,” I said.
“I’m house-sitting for my aunt,” Ms. Smyth said. “She is going to be putting her house on the market soon and I’m here to take care of the details.”
Her smooth, angled face suggested a family with money, but a glance at her shorn nails and slightly discolored fingertips suggested a different twist to her story.
“If you’ll show us the way we can have a look,” I said. “A couple of our guys are right behind us.”
“Wonderful. If you’ll follow me.”
Wiping the bottom of my tennis shoes on the mat, I entered the foyer. The front hallway was long and carpeted with a handmade Oriental runner that extended from the front door toward a kitchen gleaming with stainless steel and white marble in the back of the house. Directly in front of us was a staircase with a bullnose banister that swirled around like whipped cream. To our left stood a set of open pocket doors that looked onto a front parlor. As much as I wanted to gawk
in the room, I could only glimpse the marble fireplace, lush leather furniture, and another handmade Oriental.
We passed a collection of black-and-white images framed in white mats and ebony frames leaning against the wall. I wanted to linger and study each print, which captured everyday faces in exotic ways. I could see that the images were shot with a bellows camera and developed with a wet-plate process. I didn’t quite understand the entire technique, but knew it dated back to the Civil War. Photographers in those days needed strong muscles to carry the large camera around. They also needed a delicate touch when handling the large glass negatives and chemicals.
“Love the pictures,” I said.
“Thanks. I took them.”
“Wow,” Margaret said, inspecting them closer. “Wet-plate photography?”
“Yes.”
“Very nice,” Margaret said.
With no more explanation, Lisa clicked on a light and we moved down an old staircase that looked more period than any other part of the house. The stairs were rickety and the railing was coming loose from the wall. Suddenly, one of those horror movies flashed in my mind. People did know where we were, and Grace would sound the alarm if I didn’t return, right?
A flick of another switch and a brighter light popped on, illuminating a long, narrow room that stretched the length of the house. The basement room was filled with all kinds of boxes, old doors, furniture, and who knew what else.
“So what exactly would you like us to haul away?”
“My aunt’s attorney wants the room completely cleared out.”
Ah, the luxury of having someone else oversee the cleanup job. Scott left oversight of everything to me, and by the time the last contractor left the property, just the thought of paint chips, wood samples, and excuses over delays made me cringe. “Do you want us to save anything?”
“No. Your company hauls away junk and that’s what all this is to the owner.”
Hauls. Away. Junk. I raised a finger to explain that, no, we were a salvage company and that we saved history, but Margaret poked me in the ribs with her elbow.
A glance at Margaret’s you-shut-up expression told me to hold my comments. She saw an item that piqued her attention, and I trusted her eye for history. “We can haul it all away. What plans do you have for the space?”
“It’s going to be a media room. Wide-screen television, surround sound, and theatre chairs,” Lisa said. “Plans look pretty amazing.” She hugged her arms around her chest, warding off a cold shiver. “Do you need me? This room has always given me the creeps.”
“Nope. We’ll clear out the space.”
Margaret’s phone pinged. “Our guys are at the front door.”
“Great.” Lisa glanced toward the top of the stairs toward the light. She didn’t like this space, whereas I felt an attraction.
“If you’ll just let the boys in,” I said. “We’ll get to work.”
Lisa smiled, her relief visible. “Be glad to. Call if you need me.”
As her steady steps echoed up the stairs, I glanced at Margaret, who wandered over to a set of three doors stacked against each other by the west wall. Dust and particles rose up and danced in a beam of sunlight shining in from the street-level windows.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
“I think these doors will make the entire trip worthwhile. I can’t believe someone would just store them in a basement.”
Resting hands on hips, I surveyed the room. “So, we just take it all and sort it at the warehouse.”
“Exactly. I’m sensing lots of buried treasure here.” She clasped her hands together. “This is paradise to me. I could rumble around dark scary places all day long.”
“Well, we’ve got about eight hours, so let’s get to work,” I said. “And to ensure we get out of here on time, no looking or inspecting. We’re hauling and moving. We can dig through all the treasures at the warehouse.”
Margaret traced her finger along an old dusty chest with a brass lock. “No peeking?”
“None. Search and rescue. Study later.”
Her gaze skittered over the stacked boxes, old picture frames, lamps, and doors. “Fine. But when we’re back at the warehouse—”
“You can dig and catalogue to your heart’s content.”
Lovingly, she touched a dusty trunk. “This is the best part-time job, Addie. The best.”
And so it went. We spent the next eight hours, along with our two male helpers, Alex and Joey, hauling items from the basement and loading them on the salvage yard truck. By four o’clock in the afternoon, the basement was empty and the truck full. I paid Margaret and the guys with the cash from Grace. Margaret offered to treat us all to a beer and, though the guys readily accepted, I declined. Carrie and Grace were waiting.
As the truck rumbled over the cobblestones toward Union Street, I realized I no longer craved sunsets and cool wine, but long naps. That day was only weeks behind me, but it might as well have been a thousand years. I pulled onto King and into the side alley behind Shire Salvage, where I parked.
Up the front stairs, I found Grace sitting in the living room, rocking in the old chair. Its wooden bones creaked and groaned as the runners moved back and forth. Her eyes were closed and she hummed a tune I vaguely remembered from my summer here as a child. Without opening her eyes, she asked, “How did the job go?”
“We cleaned out the basement. All the goods are loaded in the truck, and I’ll unload and sort tomorrow.”
“Margaret a big help?”
“She was. I like her.”
“Hmmm. Nice family. They’ve been on this street for generations.”
“Where’s Carrie?”
“Sleeping. There’s cold beer in the fridge.”
“Bless you.” Quietly, I moved to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and, popping the top, sat on the hearth across from Grace. I needed a shower and was too dirty to sit on the furniture, but I was too tired to move. The beer washed away the dryness and cooled my throat. “How did it go today?”
“Not bad. She cried, ate, and pooped. She seemed easier today. Like she’s settled in a routine she’s been craving since she was in the womb.”
“I haven’t stopped to think about Janet’s pregnancy or ask where Janet has been the last few years. I have no idea what her life was like.”
“I got postcards from her from time to time. Chicago, New York, even Orlando. She waited tables in bars mostly. She’s pretty and I know she could charm big tips out of the customers.”
“Do you have any idea who Carrie’s father is?”
“No.” Grace picked up a roughly shuffled collection of postcards tucked at her side. “Here are the postcards. You might be able to find information in them that I couldn’t.”
I set the beer on the hearth and took the cards. Carefully, I thumbed through them, searching specifically for November and December of last year. Carrie was a term baby so she’d have been conceived around Thanksgiving. A shuffle through the cards and I discovered she was in Orlando for the winter. That postcard featured an alligator with sunglasses. Blue skies were so Janet. She loved warm weather. But by spring the postcards featured Times Square with the bright lights and buzz of people. She’d have been pregnant by then, but I wasn’t sure if she’d realized it. Her handwriting wasn’t as crisp on this card, suggesting her mental health was likely failing. If that were the case, she could have missed pregnancy signs altogether. “She never contacted me once during this time.”
“When she did call last week, why didn’t you call her back?”
“Because I can’t fix her, Grace. She’ll listen to me for a while, maybe a few months, but by winter, she’ll be getting restless and day-to-day rules will feel like a straitjacket.”
“You don’t think this time is different? She just gave birth to her second baby.”
“Her son and hu
sband weren’t enough. Why would Carrie be enough?”
The rocker creaked back and forth. “Then you adopt the baby. Raise her with that man on the vineyard. Fresh air is good for babies.”
Oddly, the idea really appealed for a split second. I tried to imagine Carrie at the vineyard with Scott. No longer did I believe I could take care of all this and never tell Scott. At some point an invisible point of no return came and went. This life was growing around me like thorny vines and getting free wasn’t really possible anymore. I was going to have to tell Scott.
“You’re thinking you’re going to have to make a choice,” she said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think Carrie won’t fit on the vineyard and Scott won’t fit here.”
“I don’t know.” I sipped the beer, hoping it would ease the banding tightness. “I don’t know.”
“You know. You know.”
I brushed away buzzing doubts. “He’s not just a guy, Grace. I love him. I’ve imagined us being married.”
A gray brow arched, disapproving. “Has he talked about marriage?”
“We’ve talked about a future together, but we’ve been too busy to discuss marriage.”
Grace shook her head. “Okay.”
“Okay?” My defenses rose. “What does that mean?”
“It means okay.” Fatigue rushed behind the words. “This is for you to sort out.”
“You aren’t a bystander, Grace.” She pulled me into all this. “Carrie is yours as well.”
“No, she’s yours.”
I gulped more beer. “She’s Janet’s.”
“No, Addie. She is not Janet’s. You’ve said it yourself. She won’t be able to take care of the baby in the long run. Winter will come, and she’ll get restless. I saw it so many times with my sister. They’re unwilling to take medication. You know. We both can see it coming.”
“I survived.” A tightness knotted my chest as I thought about all the forgotten birthdays, missed appointments, hungry nights, and Mom’s ranting speeches.
She nodded her head. “Yeah, you survived. If that’s what you want to call it.”
At the Corner of King Street Page 23