Out of the Ashes

by Tracie Peterson

  Katherine braced herself. The guilt trip wouldn’t end there. The woman was well into her eighties, but she didn’t look like it or act like it, for that matter. Only when she needed to use her advancing years to get what she wanted. “Grandmother, you are too stubborn to leave this earth one second before you choose to. I would imagine even God consults your calendar.”

  “Don’t be blasphemous. Of course, God doesn’t consult me, but we do discuss it.” She winked and put on a sly grin.

  “Be that as it may, I very much doubt that this will be the last trip you want to take, nor the last you will take.” The woman constantly flitted to and fro between Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. “As to your Katherine being free . . . well, I’m quite certain she doesn’t exist anymore.” The thought tore at her heart.

  “It’s been over a year since that”—Grandmother always refused to call Randall by his given name—“Senator Demarchis died. Time will heal the wounds. I’m confident of it. I know you don’t wish to speak of him or your marriage, but I’m willing to listen if you need me.”

  “I know.” But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not ever.

  Grandmother gave a slight nod and then turned to look at the fireplace. “It’s been almost two years since Grandpapa went on to heaven. I’ve been planning this ever since my beloved passed, and I think I’ve waited quite patiently.” She looked down at the watch hanging from her blouse. “You know, I may not have a lot of time left.”

  In earlier years, Katherine would have laughed at the swift change to a safer subject—not to mention the dramatic look on the older woman’s face. But laughter didn’t come easily anymore—it hadn’t for a long time—and she really didn’t want a scolding about respecting her elders. “I highly doubt that your time here will be so brief, Grandmother.”

  “Doubt all you want. I just wish you would agree so that we could start fresh. Wash you clean of that man once and for all. Stop allowing him to control you.”

  Katherine bristled. Did Randall still control her from the grave? She had often thought only death could release her. Her death. His. It never mattered which, so long as she no longer had to abide such a heinous creature.

  Apparently, it wasn’t that easy.

  Randall Demarchis. He’d been her parents’ choice. Not hers. And she’d never loved the man. But she’d resigned herself to the arrangement out of respect for her parents. At the time, she had little choice.

  Her senator husband had been all manners and smooth-talking politician until their wedding day. But as soon as they were alone that first night, his façade fell—and the beast behind the mask came out.

  The horrors she faced during those few years of marriage were something she never spoke of—to anyone. But Grandmother had guessed, although never to the degree of severity. And on the evening she persuaded Katherine to be honest with her mother and father, they’d received the news that her parents were dead—killed in an automobile accident.

  At that moment, Katherine knew all hope was lost. She was destined to her fate. And refused to ever speak of it again.

  After the loss of her parents, Randall’s cruelty only intensified. But around town they were the toast and envy of all. He was dashingly handsome and she was classically beautiful. His constituents and peers alike respected and even loved him. Randall was all charm and grace when he wanted to be.

  It was all a game. A perverted and hideous game.

  The charade continued for three long, miserable years until Randall drank himself into oblivion one night, slipped on the ice outside his club, and fell down the stairs. A broken neck made death instantaneous.

  The nightmare was over. The monster was gone. And she didn’t shed a tear.

  Three years.

  And it had changed everything.

  Short for a marriage by most people’s standards. But it felt like three hundred to her.

  Every once in a while, she dreamed of happier times. Back when she had hopes and dreams. When she had been in love . . . a long time ago. But those were few and far between now. The reality of her marriage hammered the truth into her heart.

  There was no hope of happily ever after.

  “Katherine? Don’t go into that dark place alone. You can tell me the truth.” Grandmother tilted her head in a way that said she knew exactly where Katherine’s thoughts had taken her. But the conversation Grandmother wanted to have wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.

  “Katherine . . . dear?” The expression on Grandmother’s face changed to worry.

  If she didn’t steer the conversation back, she’d distress the poor woman, and Grandmother had already been through too much. She knew too much. Even if it was only a fraction—Katherine had to spare her beloved grandparent.

  Wherever they traveled, the bleak cloud that was Katherine’s existence would follow. It was her fate. Randall had seen to that. But she could spare her grandmother and give her a little peace. “All right, all right. Wherever you want to go. I’ll go along. As long as I don’t have to dress in any of those crazy new designs that just keep getting shorter.” She raised an eyebrow. “And don’t think I didn’t hear you speaking to your dressmaker about a new wardrobe for me. If I told you the reputation of the girls who don such apparel, you would keel over here and now.”

  “Agreed. No short dresses.” Grandmother’s eyes twinkled. “It’s nice to hear some spunk back in your voice.”

  Katherine shook her head. She didn’t have the will to argue. Spunk or no spunk, apparently, she was about to travel. “So where are we going?”

  “Alaska, my dear.” The older woman grinned like the cat that swallowed the canary. “We’re going to Alaska.”

  MARCH 5—THE CURRY HOTEL, CURRY, ALASKA

  Twenty-year-old Thomas Smith lifted the slop bucket over his head as he navigated his way through the chickens and into the pigpen.

  Today, he wouldn’t trip. Nor would he spill anything on his clean apron.

  And then he would be able to say that he had made it a whole one hundred days without being clumsy. Mrs. Johnson—the head cook at the Curry Hotel—had promised him a cake, and the cook’s chief assistant, Cassidy, had promised him that all the kitchen girls and maids would line up and kiss him on the cheek if he made it.

  He didn’t need any more motivation than that.

  But even more exciting was that he’d completed a course with Cassidy’s father, Mr. John Ivanoff, and her husband, Mr. Allan Brennan—the two expert wilderness and exploration guides—and they would be presenting him with a certificate of achievement at dinner tonight.

  Could the day get any better?

  Bessie—the hotel’s old sow—made a charge for him inside the pen. With a quick step to the right, Thomas avoided the grumpy pig’s first run, but she made another effort with her hind end.

  Before he knew it, he was slipping and sliding in the mud as Bessie made another run for him.

  Thomas threw the bucket over his head and reached for the fence post to keep from falling. Today of all days. The old girl just had to take it out on him today.

  Scrambling over the fence, Thomas heard whistles and applause. Great. They were probably all going to laugh at clumsy ol’ Thomas.

  But as his feet hit the ground and he took stock of his clothing, he was amazed. Not a single smudge. Except for the mud on his shoes. And to make everything even better, the slop bucket had landed squarely in the feed trough and the pigs were enjoying their breakfast.

  As the whistles and applause continued, Thomas clapped his hands together and took a bow.

  Allan Brennan walked over to him and patted him on the back. “That’s what I call thinking on your feet, Thomas. Good job!” He winked at Thomas and walked away.

  The praise made him want to puff out his chest. Even though Allan had won Cassidy’s heart when Thomas fancied himself in love with her too, the older man had earned his utmost respect. Especially when he and Cassidy came to Thomas a couple years earlier with an offer to help him expand his edu
cation.

  Growing up in an orphanage until he was fourteen, Thomas had only received a cursory education. The strict religious leaders of the orphanage saw little purpose in teaching the boys anything but physical labor and the restrictions of an angry, harsh, and judging God. The Brennans helped him not only to see God in a different light, but they had made it their goal to give Thomas an education.

  Amazingly enough Thomas proved to be a very quick learner. So quick, in fact, that one year later he was able to take the entrance exam for the new college in Fairbanks. The Alaska Agricultural College and School of Mines.

  Education had changed his life. He fit in a semester here and there around the busiest seasons of the Curry, but next fall he would attend for the entire fall and spring semesters. Allan and Cassidy offered to pay his tuition and transportation to school. In turn, Thomas offered and pledged to work as a guide for the Curry for the foreseeable future. He also hoped to be able to assist the Brennans with their Seattle-based company by learning as much as he could and offering new ideas for mountaineering equipment they could sell. Especially to all the miners headed to Alaska.

  He smiled at the retreating figure of Allan Brennan. The man was his hero, and one day, Thomas hoped to be like Allan. God-fearing, hardworking, and well respected.

  Now, if he could just make it until dinner without mishap . . .

  Thankfully, there were fewer guests to contend with this time of the year. For Thomas that meant he didn’t do so much to help with hikes and camping trips as much as he did upkeep and repairing. But it didn’t matter. He loved his work. Loved school too. His studies had opened his eyes to a better understanding of the Alaskan wilderness.

  The afternoon passed quickly in his various labors. A glance at his watch made him realize it was, in fact, dinnertime. Heading toward his reward, he smiled.

  The downstairs dining room teemed with noise and activity. Happy chatter of the day between all the hotel workers, clanking of silverware on plates, and above all that, Mrs. Johnson’s orders. That woman never ran out of steam.

  Or orders.

  She wasn’t a big woman, but she was stout and fierce. He’d heard it said the widow was in her forties, but the years had been hard and she looked older to him. Her reddish-brown hair was equally interspersed with gray, and the lines around her mouth suggested she’d done more frowning than smiling. But she was a fair person and a good judge of character. She could bark out orders like a sergeant in the army, but she would work alongside you with tireless effort.

  Thomas admitted he’d come to care about the bossy chef. About all of the staff at the Curry. They were the most important people in his life.

  Something like a big family. And he loved it.

  Over the years, he’d worked hard. Harder than he ever thought possible. Made more mistakes than he’d ever want to admit, but it had all been worth it. As he looked around the huge table full of staff and workers, Thomas smiled. They weren’t like a family—they were his family.

  Once the needs of the guests were met, the Curry Hotel staff sat down to their own meal in the downstairs dining room. This was the routine they’d followed ever since the place opened in 1923. They took advantage of the leftover food, which was always of the highest quality, and shared their thoughts about the events and happenings of the hotel. Thomas thought it the perfect way to end the day.

  The clinking of a glass quieted most everyone and Mr. John Ivanoff scooted his chair back, stood, and cleared his throat. “Everyone, if I could have your attention, please.”

  Footsteps sounded down the hall and Mr. Bradley—the hotel manager—appeared from the doorway.

  Everyone stood.

  “Please, be seated.” Their manager motioned with his hands. “Well now.” He looked straight at Thomas.

  Thomas swallowed. A little louder than he intended.

  “Dinner upstairs was exceptional, everyone. Excellent job as usual. Our patrons are very happy.” Mr. Bradley coughed and then continued. “Mr. Ivanoff and Mr. Brennan have informed me that we have something to celebrate this evening.”

  Several of the younger staff whispered to each other.

  “I’d like to ask a special staff member to come forward.” The manager’s face was serious and gave nothing away.

  More whispers and giggles around the table as most everyone sat up a little straighter.

  “Thomas”—he held out a hand—“would you join me up here, please?”

  A few gasps were heard around the table and then complete silence.

  Thomas took a deep breath and scooted his chair back. It screeched on the hard floor. But he stood up and straightened his shoulders as he walked toward Mr. Bradley.

  The manager held his hand out still.

  Thomas took it and grasped it.

  “As you all probably know, Thomas has been with us for three years now. Since the beginning of the hotel. And even though we’ve all had challenges to schedules and routines here at the Curry, I haven’t seen anyone work harder or longer under sometimes the worst of circumstances.”

  Gentle applause filled the room.

  Mr. Bradley held up his other hand until it was quiet. “On top of his regular duties, Thomas has sought education to further himself and learn a new trade. Not only has he achieved that goal, but he has done it with flying colors and all while fitting in time in Fairbanks to attend college.”

  More applause.

  John and Allan stood as well. Holding out a plaque, Allan handed it to Thomas.

  John spoke. “This is your certificate of achievement, Thomas. You’ve earned it and will one day be the best guide out there—I’m sure of it.”

  Cassidy had sneaked up behind Mr. Bradley at some point and handed the manager another plaque as she winked at Thomas. The manager grinned. “And this award is for one hundred days—”

  Cheers and clapping, hooting and hollering drowned out anything else the man might have said.

  Thomas gladly took the plaque and raised it over his head as he spotted Mrs. Johnson carrying a massive cake into the workers’ dining hall. His mouth watered. This was for him. Wow.

  John and Allan crouched and each grabbed one of Thomas’s legs and lifted him above their shoulders. John’s baritone belted out, “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow . . .”

  As Thomas looked out across the dining room to all the smiling faces, he couldn’t help but be proud.

  This was his family.

  And he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  2

  MARCH 6—FRANCE

  Gazing down at the coffin that housed his father’s physical body, Jean-Michel counted the scoops of dark soil as they hit the lid and began to cover its surface. The two cemetery employees worked their shovels in unison.

  Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-two.

  The quiet thumps of dirt plopping on wood became quieter as the coffin disappeared and earth covered earth.

  Thirty-four . . . thirty-five.

  Thick humidity, rich with the scent of the recent rain, covered the earth. What used to bring him thoughts of being washed clean and fresh starts, now would forever stain his memory with the day he’d buried his dad. His mentor. His confidant.

  Pierre Langelier hadn’t been that old a man, but a stroke had rendered him helpless just a week earlier. Complaints of blurred vision and fatigue were the only hints that something was wrong with the Langelier patriarch. Everyone thought it was attributed to overwork. But everyone had been wrong.

  Jean-Michel wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders. Other than a few sniffles, Collette had been quiet through the entire funeral and graveside service.

  And that worried him.

  Collette was never quiet. Since her return from boarding school the year before, she had all but worn him out with her constant flitting about. She had been the apple of their father’s eye and could generally get anything she wanted from him. The exception had been where young men were concerned
. Collette had encouraged suitors at every point. She wanted to try them on like the silly fashions she and her girlfriends thought so wonderful. Father, however, would not be persuaded. He would find an appropriate suitor for her. Now Jean-Michel supposed that task fell to him.

  Another few plunks of dirt. Then the shovels patted the top. He leaned hard on his cane.

  Their father was buried. Out of sight. Under a mound. With a wooden cross at the head until the gravestone could be carved and placed.

  Too many deaths.

  First, the Great War and then the influenza pandemic—every person he knew had lost someone. Only a few years later the Druze Revolt—when he’d failed to save countless lives. Now Father.

  He looked up and gazed at the dreary sight before him. Tombstone after tombstone. Mound after mound. And yet Jean-Michel felt they were leaving their father isolated and alone. Without his beloved wife.

  Their mother was buried in Quebec—on the other side of the world. They’d been living abroad so the senior Langelier could keep Jean-Michel out of reach of the war. Father paid outlandish fees for Jean-Michel to attend college there, and even though it kept him out of the Great War, they’d all paid the utmost price—Mother contracted influenza and succumbed to the dreaded disease before he could graduate.

  Yet another point of guilt.

  The reduced Langelier family returned to France after the armistice was signed, and Jean-Michel was stunned to learn that most of his old schoolmates were dead. More guilt piled onto his already heavy heart whenever he looked into the faces of their parents. Did they wonder why he lived when their own sons were dead?

  So much sorrow. Too many funerals.

  The quiet rustling of movement brought Jean-Michel’s attention up from the dark mound before him.

  “So sorry for your loss. Pierre was a good man.” Someone’s soft words reached his ear as they passed by.

  “If we can do anything . . .”

  “We will say prayers for your family.” A woman’s voice cracked as she patted Jean-Michel’s arm.

  One by one the mourners departed with their pittance of encouragement offered. Father had been loved by many as evidenced by the large crowd at the funeral and here at the graveside service. Loved. Admired. Respected. All the things Jean-Michel was not.