No. There was too much more going on with him, between them. This psychic thing was real, even if they couldn’t explain it, and they were equal partners in trying to figure it out. But that psychic thing, as she had called it, that was her answer: Olivia had somehow passed down that ability or trait or whatever it was, and it had come to Abby, and for her to understand how to be with Ned, she had to understand Olivia.
She went through the papers carefully, smoothing each one, trying to understand why someone had thought it worth saving. Some names she recognized from her own research; others were new to her. Sadly, Isabel had died relatively young, even before Olivia. Still, she had probably known the Cape house, at least for a few years.
At the bottom of the Bankers Box there was a metal box, and Abby pulled it out and turned it over in her hands. It was made of a thin metal—tin?—painted black with gold accents, and far from new. It had a lock in the front, but the key was attached by a faded blue ribbon to the handle on the top. Abby unlocked it, and all but holding her breath, opened it. The interior was filled with letters, neatly stacked, still in their envelopes. And all the envelopes bore Olivia’s return address, either in Westfield or in West Falmouth. Was this cache what Edna had meant when she said the answer was in the boxes? Maybe they were all the “Hi, how are you?” variety that ladies of polite society exchanged in those days. Or maybe—since Isabel had saved them carefully and set them apart—there was more in them. Only one way to find out. Abby removed the letters from the box, saw that they were sorted by date, and began reading.
The letters covered a period that mostly overlapped the years that Olivia had owned the Cape house, and most of the later ones had been written from there. They stopped in 1938, at the time of the Great Hurricane. The house had survived, Abby knew, but maybe there had been repairs to be made? And by the time they were finished, Olivia had already begun her decline. Or maybe the greater devastation in Massachusetts and Rhode Island and Connecticut had made it seem frivolous and somehow indecent to go and frolic on a beach. From what Abby had read, it had taken years for many shore communities to recover; entire industries had been all but wiped out.
Had Olivia stopped writing then, or had Isabel not bothered to save the later letters? Abby knew that both of them were already ill with whatever disease they each had that would kill them shortly—in Olivia’s case she suspected cancer, although the cause of death had been blacked out on the copy of the death certificate that she had. The answer became a bit clearer as Abby read on. It was obvious that Olivia and Isabel had had a fairly close relationship, despite the difference in their ages. Olivia could have been Isabel’s mother, whereas Elizabeth was far older, so it was not surprising. The letters started out as cheerful and almost chatty—Olivia commenting on small improvements she was making to the summer house, new stores that had appeared in Falmouth, other houses in the neighborhood that had changed hands, guests that Olivia had entertained, the occasional invitation for Isabel to come visit, with or without her family, often followed by “how lovely it was to see you” letters. Olivia had had a small, neat hand, and it was easy to read. Abby was enjoying the glimpse into a social life that was unfamiliar to her, and that had vanished before World War Two, with some pressure from the Depression as well. Even Olivia would have known that the era was passing, and there was a kind of bittersweet quality to the letters. There were references to men who came to the back door looking to do any old odd job on the property, in exchange for a hot meal and maybe a dollar or two. Olivia said they were always polite, but she could sense their desperation. Even on Cape Cod there had been year-round residents who must have been hurting then—a far different picture than the present, when it was seen as a playground for the affluent.
And there was a subtle shift in tone, about a year or two before the letters stopped. There were fewer and fewer social occasions, but at the same time, one name kept cropping up with increasing frequency. A man named Charles Clarkson. It had to be a relative of the artist’s—a son, a nephew? The earliest references to him—Abby had to go back and check the prior letters—had been almost formal. “Mr. Clarkson called in and we spoke of his father’s paintings once again.” All right, Charles was Thomas’s son—good to know. “It was so kind of him to bring me that painting, but he has been consistently kind since he first sent his condolences upon our father’s death, years ago.” Ah, the first contact, Abby thought. Charles must have known William Flagg, or at least known of him through his father, and had sent some card to Olivia, acknowledging it. A common courtesy.
But the mentions continued over the years, and given the change in tone, Abby had to wonder: had Olivia been having an affair? She would have been in her fifties or sixties by the time she wrote the letters. Abby had to laugh at herself: did she really believe that Olivia was too old for romance or love at that age, whether or not it was platonic? She seemed to eagerly anticipate the visits of the man, who apparently stayed over in the house on occasion, and Abby had the sense that Olivia initially was worried about what Isabel might think of her. It was a shame that she didn’t have Isabel’s side of the correspondence, but Abby inferred that because Olivia had continued to refer to the man, with discreet but increasing affection, Isabel had approved, or at least had not voiced her disapproval.
Abby forced herself to read on, although she was beginning to suspect how the story would end. The last letter from Olivia to Isabel had included a tiny newspaper clipping.
When Ned walked into the dining room, he found Abby sitting in the near-dark with tears running down her face. “I know what happened,” she said.
“Tell me,” he replied.
Chapter 28
Ned offered her a hand, and she stood up, feeling oddly unsteady. He led her carefully into the parlor, where he turned on a couple of lamps. Abby felt like she had been swimming underwater and was only now coming up for air. Her back was stiff, and her eyes were bleary. “Maybe a glass of wine would help.” Silently he deposited her on the settee and went to the kitchen.
Abby struggled to put her thoughts in order. There was nothing mystical or otherworldly about how she was feeling: she was just tired. And sad. Abby could hear the clink of bottle on glass as Ned poured wine. When he returned, he handed her a glass of white wine and settled himself on the other end of the couch. “What did you find?” he asked.
Abby took a deep breath, and then a sip of wine, before she started. “The third box had all the materials from the early twentieth century, so a lot of them had to do with Isabel and her family. At the bottom of the box was a small metal box that contained letters, written by Olivia to Isabel, mostly from the house on the Cape, but also with some from New Jersey. I’m sure there were plenty of other letters, but those were the ones that Isabel saved. I think I know why.”
“Go on,” Ned said quietly.
“We know that Olivia bought the West Falmouth house in the mid-1920s. As far as I know, it was the first summer house she had ever had, if that makes sense—although she and Samuel did their share of traveling earlier in their lives, and she may have rented on the Cape for a couple of years, to get a feel for the place. But it was her house, her choice. It looked like she spent a fair amount of time there—of course, moving up from New Jersey and back would have been a chore, so you didn’t do it on a whim for a weekend. From the letters it sounds like she had a pleasant social life in the summers—she went to concerts, she entertained friends, she knew her near neighbors. Kind of what you’d expect from a moderately well-to-do older woman in those days. Isabel visited on occasion, with and without the rest of her family. And things went on that way for a number of years, until around 1930, I’d guess. You know that the world had changed quite a bit by then.”
Ned nodded. “Yes—the economy had tanked, and there were rumblings about war. How did that affect Olivia?”
“It didn’t, directly—although I haven’t seen her bank statements from the era, and I assume there must have been some impact. You have t
o realize I’m seeing all of this only from Olivia’s perspective, through a handful of letters over time, so I’m kind of guessing to fill in the blanks. At some point Olivia begins mentioning a man named Charles Clarkson in the letters.”
“Why is that name familiar?” Ned asked.
“Charles was the son of Thomas Clarkson, the artist, remember? That painting my mother has?”
“Oh, right. Where does this Charles fit in the story?”
“Well, I gather that Charles initially made contact when he heard that William Flagg had died—he must have known him, or known of him, from Lynn, and William’s death would have been announced there. Charles lived in Lynn most of his life, and it seems unlikely to me that he would have tracked her down in New Jersey, but he did send a card. Of course, we don’t know whether they kept in touch over the next few years, but Olivia’s husband died in 1917, remember. And sometime after that Olivia started visiting the Cape. Say Charles heard from someone that she was summering on the Cape and decided to call upon her—and he brought the painting.”
“Why would he do that?”
“The obvious answer is that it was a gift in commemoration of Olivia’s father’s early support of Charles’s father, decades before. But I think—and this is just a guess—that he was courting her. If you remember, Thomas the artist died in 1892. Charles, it appears, was younger than Olivia by maybe a decade, but that wasn’t really that much. The painting was kind of a nice entrée, don’t you think? I mean, it probably wasn’t worth a whole lot then, and was something that Charles thought Olivia would recognize and enjoy. So it was his calling card, so to speak. And they struck up a friendship that lasted for years. And maybe a bit more than a friendship.”
“You can tell this from the letters?” Ned asked.
“Kind of. Olivia mentions him more and more often, over several years, and he kind of morphed into ‘dear Charles’ who was visiting again. I think it was only a summer thing—he never came to New Jersey.”
“Was Charles married?”
“Obviously I haven’t done the research on that, since I’ve only just learned of him, but no spouse was ever mentioned in the letters. Now, to put this in context, I have a feeling that Olivia’s marriage wasn’t a very happy one, and she was kind of enjoying her own independence after Samuel died—she got involved in more community affairs, and she bought the second house, for example. But maybe she was lonely. Her mother died in 1929. Isabel was married and living in Massachusetts, and she had four little kids, so she was busy. I’m not saying that every woman needs a man to keep her happy, but I think maybe Olivia may have been a bit vulnerable.”
“You’re saying Charles was a gold digger? He wanted to exploit Olivia?”
“No, not at all! I think they were two lonely older people who enjoyed each other’s company, and then maybe it turned into something more. Something they didn’t expect. There was no reason why they couldn’t have married—they were both respectable people of means. Nobody would have raised an eyebrow. And maybe they would have, except . . .” Abby found it hard to go on, and took another sip of wine. And another.
“What happened, Abby?” Ned asked gently.
“The hurricane happened, is what. How much do you know about that?”
“Not a lot. I know it had a major impact on the coastal states, and even as far inland as Springfield.”
“I’ve been reading up on it lately, just out of curiosity, after I saw that binder of news reports at the house, which Daniel’s grandfather put together right after the storm. It was one of the largest and most destructive storms ever to hit New England, and it was devastating. Of course, back in those days the weather service was in its infancy, and predicting was very hit or miss. The forecasters, such as they were, really missed this one. The storm was big and it moved fast, and then it ran into a very unusual combination of circumstances—most storms loop out to sea, toward the east. But there was a stationary high just inland, and a high on the east side, so this storm kind of got channeled right up the middle, and all of its force was concentrated along that path. As soon as the winds kicked up, they took down what telephone and power lines there were, so there was no way to warn anyone that it was coming. People were completely unprepared. They kept saying, ‘there are never hurricanes in New England,’ for all the good it did them.”
“But the Cape house survived intact,” Ned said.
“Yes, it did. The canal had just been enlarged and deepened, and in a way that protected the Cape by diverting the storm surge, which is why there was less flooding than in other coastal areas. Plus the storm kind of moved inland, on its way to Canada.”
“And how does this all fit in Olivia’s story?”
Abby drained her glass. “Charles had a sailboat—no surprise, since his father painted so many marine pictures—and he was an experienced sailor. He was going to sail down from Lynn, or maybe Nahant, to Falmouth, to visit Olivia, who had stayed on the Cape, even though it was toward the end of September. Probably so they could spend a little more time together before she went back to New Jersey. And then the storm hit and Charles’s boat went down. His body was found a couple of days later.”
“Good God,” Ned said.
“Yes. I can only imagine how Olivia felt. The last letter to Isabel, or at least the last one Isabel kept, said only, ‘Charles is gone.’ Olivia included a tiny newspaper clipping reporting Charles’s death and the circumstances, although of course it didn’t mention that he had been on his way to visit Olivia. But Isabel would have understood what that meant. And that’s where the story ends. They were both gone within three years.”
“How awful, and how sad.”
“Yes. When Olivia died, Ruth put the house on the market almost immediately and probably sold it at a loss—Daniel told me his grandfather boasted about getting a really good deal on it. So now I see why Olivia was sitting on the porch in the storm—she was waiting for Charles, although she probably knew by then he would never come. Her last chance for a little happiness, and losing him broke something inside her. That’s why we feel her pain, even now. She kept the painting, not because Thomas Clarkson was an important painter, but because Charles had given it to her.”
Ned wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “This seeing the dead business can be a real bitch. I’m sorry you had to run into Olivia under these circumstances.”
“I’m not,” Abby said to his chest. “She loved him. It didn’t matter that they were older—they’d found each other, and they were happy. I know that was real. And that matters. It matters for us, too. Because I’m descended from Olivia, and I can feel what she feels, at least for the important things. So that’s why I wanted to know. I had to know.”
“I think I can understand that.” He held her in silence for a few minutes, and Abby wondered if he was sharing her pain, through that contact? Or maybe diluting it, drawing some away from her?
Finally Abby said, “What do we tell Ellie? She felt something in the house too. And then there’s the picture she took. Do you think there really is something in that picture, or am I just projecting? Maybe we should have let Leslie look at it longer—if she didn’t see anything, that would have told us something. But Ellie saw it, in the picture, and we have to say something. I’d hate to have her go off with her camera trying to photograph spirits. Although I have to admit, I’d be curious to see what happens.”
“We can talk to her,” Ned agreed. “I don’t want to go behind Leslie’s back, but if she can’t see the . . . something in that picture, then she’s not going to understand what we’re talking about.”
“I should talk to my mother too. I don’t know how she’s coping with this whole idea of seeing things that aren’t there, or were but only in the past. And she’s got the picture. I can tell her the facts, but I don’t know what that will mean to her. Poor Charles. What a shame. Olivia deserved some happiness with Charles.”
Chapter 29
They ate a patchy dinner and reti
red early. Abby still felt the pain of Olivia’s loss, but muted now by her new understanding of what had happened. Some people no doubt would tell her she’d strung together a story out of next to nothing, but it made sense to her. Now the sorrow was a compact lump in her chest, but it was not as sore as it had been.
She lay in the dark with her head on Ned’s chest. Warm, breathing—real. Not a phantom from the past, although he had his own links to his ancestors.
“You know, I think I understand why it was always the women who were considered witches,” she said.
“And why is that?” Ned’s voice, slow and drowsy, rumbled in her ear.
“Because we feel more. We sense things. I know you see people—the ones who are gone, I mean—the way I do, but do you have any idea what they’re feeling when you see them?”
Ned took a moment to answer. “No, I can’t say that I do. But there have been male witches, haven’t there?”
“Yes. Well, at least in fiction—I’m not convinced that witches really exist, beyond serving as other people’s way of pinning a name on something they don’t understand. But think about the male witches and mages and magicians in traditional literature. They’re mostly about power, not helping other people. Sure, there are evil female witches, but I’d guess that most women who earned the label of witch were more likely competent herbalists who tried to heal others, and sometimes actually succeeded. Or they were more sensitive to and observant of symptoms and troubles in other people. People often distrust what they don’t understand, and it scares them so they lash out. Does that make sense?
Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) Page 22