Out of Splinters and Ashes

by Colleen L. Donnelly

  Chapter 41

  Curled up in my living room chair, I stared at my and my grandparents’ background I’d taken from Grandpa’s house.

  There were envelopes within envelopes of my mother’s letters, the innermost ones unopened. Sent back, and sent back again as my mother’s and grandmother’s war raged. Some, addressed to my grandfather, had never been opened and never returned; whatever my mother had tried to say pressed flat and invisible within. Maybe he’d never seen these letters. My grandmother was the one who should be on trial. Surely she had tampered with her husband’s mail.

  I picked up Grandpa’s military correspondence: stilted jargon, which read the way the three military officers had spoken in Grandpa’s house that day. Nothing personal or personable, the most recent being dates, times, and words like “charges” and “preferred” such as the mummified soldier had used.

  You are hereby being notified…

  I read each one, understanding little, but enough. I needed Emerson, really needed him. I glanced at the phone. He was the one man who could step in and hold onto me while he set Grandpa free like he surely should be, and tout Grandpa as a hero instead of a criminal, like he’d promised.

  I set everything on the floor and stood. I lifted the phone and dialed, listened to three rings before he picked it up. “Emerson?”

  “Catharine. Can I come over?”

  Tears came, and I nodded a muffled yes.

  “Be right there.”

  I set the handset in its cradle, hot tears cooling my face. I walked to my bedroom and stared at my reflection in my mirror.

  “I will add it with the other to your mirror. There will be more. More thoughts, more lilies, more to share with you.”

  Her mirror. She thought of it hanging near her desk, a solitary lily attached at one corner. And now, another. And soon, more. More lilies, more thoughts, more stories for her to read to the athletes before they went. Except for him. He would stay. They saw it in the mirror. Both of them together. Forever. A crown of lilies capping their love.

  Loving an enemy. Done so wrong. Written so right.

  Chapter 42

  Emerson’s knock brought me from my mirror. I brushed Amabile away, pinched my cheeks, ran my fingers through waves that coiled back exactly where they’d been, and walked to the door.

  “For you…” Emerson stood behind a handful of hangers draped with shimmering bags of thin plastic. “I found three outfits that will be perfect.”

  He appeared around the plastic as he stepped into my apartment, a smile and a face that could get elected on their own merit.

  “You…you shouldn’t have.”

  “Of course I should have. For you.” Emerson draped each garment over the back of my small sofa, smoothed the plastic, and stood back. “That won’t do.” He slid the plastic up off each one, bunching it near the hangers. “What do you think?”

  I shouldered close to him and stood near enough to share his view of the brown slacks outfit, the maroon dress, and the casual jeans with a jacket—a corduroy jacket. I edged closer until our shoulders touched.

  “You will look beautiful in these,” he said, his arm sliding around my back. I fell into his embrace, relieved tears ready to wash away all that was wrong. “Let’s see how you look in them.”

  Letting go of me, Emerson bent over my sofa and gathered all three hangers into his hand. He smoothed the outfits, bunching the plastic tighter at the top.

  “Emerson…before I try those…”

  “There is no ‘before,’ Catharine. We have now. We’ll start fresh. Let’s see how these look.”

  “Really, Emerson, I want things to be that easy, but…”

  He re-draped the garments over my sofa, smoothed them with a hand, and left them be. “I’m sorry, Catharine. There is a ‘before,’ and I’m sorry for how I was to you about your family.”

  Your fiancé will have to stand on his own values.

  Emerson understood that. And whatever running or standing he was doing, he was doing it with me. “I was confused. I have so much on my mind.” He inched my way, the face that never cracked under pressure hesitated, no longer a candidate but a man.

  I closed the last of the distance between us and fell against his chest. I held on, my arms tight around him, my ear against him, listening for his heart. His arms rose, they found their place around me, and I squeezed tighter. Everything would be okay.

  We stood in a quiet different from Grandpa’s house. This quiet breathed. It sighed a different sort of relief, like a gasp of hope. This was how a relationship should be. This was love.

  I tilted my head back and looked up at the man I was to marry. “Thank you for the outfits. But more than that, thank you.”

  I’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss Emerson. It had been so long, affection so hurried between his agendas, so lost in my chaotic world. His face bent close, his breath and mine mingled.

  I stretched to my toes, pressed through the small space, pressed beyond Miles’ opinions, the pressure of Emerson’s race, beyond Grandpa, the army, and Amabile.

  Emerson’s lips softened. My kiss was returned, and his hold became a squeeze. “We’ll be okay,” I said. “With your help, the two of us will be fine.” I locked my fingers behind his back and smiled up into a face I would trust.

  “Yes, everything will turn out fine.” He eased back as he said it, bumping my emotional clutter with his foot. “What’s all this?”

  “That? That’s my history, actually. Or my family’s. And some of Grandpa’s present.” And Grandma’s, if I counted the enveloped books I’d left to the side. I latched onto one of his hands as he swiveled in place, staring at the piles arcing in front of my chair.

  “His present?” Emerson frowned at the envelopes at his feet.

  “You know, the things Miles told you about.”

  Emerson cocked his head, studying the military pile. “He’s going to be okay…” He glanced back at me. I saw and heard the question in his statement.

  “I hope so. Especially if you help.”

  He can’t outrun what is happening to your grandfather. Emerson’s fingers moved within mine, his thumb racing across his fingertips.

  “Shall we see if these outfits fit me?”

  Emerson let go of my hand. His focus left the piles of letters—my life and my grandparents’ lives—behind, like Dietrich said he should. Emerson retrieved the hangers and nodded toward my bedroom.

  I led him to where I’d stood minutes before, to the mirror where I’d seen my heart. My reflection was there, and I looked for his behind mine: for black hair and black eyes, but I saw his heart instead—dangling from his fingers.

  Chapter 43

  The bells above Non Bookends’ door tinkled. Dietrich listened for Cate’s grandmother as he closed the door. Fiction created a different atmosphere than nonfiction: too full, too many ancient words on ancient pages, too many hearts printed for everyone to see.

  He moved into the store, Non Bookends already alive with reading and browsing. The grandmother’s voice could be heard near the table she worked from, so he stayed to the perimeter, her tones telling him where she was, and how she felt.

  He slid a book from a shelf, pretending to flip through its pages as he strolled on. He needed the mirror, a good look at it, or an answer from the woman working below it. He closed and patted the book against his palm, glanced at the shelves next to where he stood.

  Men prize the thing ungained more than it is. Shakespeare

  He stared at the handwritten words, saw Crawley’s bent form and the spear aimed at him. A woman, according to Randall, but in all honesty, there could be more than one. Revenge was this mistress’s passion. Dietrich retraced his steps and thrust the book back into its space.

  Fictional revenge was suffocating, too many words like clubs to the backs of the guilty when facts made a much quicker and cleaner end.

  Sunlight, ceiling lights, and low lamps reflected on the ring of frames above the condemning pro
se. He squinted at the glare. At the single gem of fact crowning the hostility.

  One frame, one sheen, the ugliest and the oldest cast a different sort of reflection within its arched rectangle of charred wood. He needed that fact to settle Amabile.

  Chapter 44

  I stood in my grandparents’ house listening to their phone ring.

  I had hoped Grandpa would be back, his face worthy of another picture for my display—content this time, relieved, whittling sticks to something because this was his life, his world, and it suited him.

  Because Dietrich and the army were wrong.

  I stood in the silence where sticks became nothing. Where there was no life, no world, no Grandpa.

  “Mama…” I said when I finally answered the second round of ringing. I wanted to ask if she knew Grandpa may have done something to be considered a spy, if she’d ever heard of Amabile, but she dove into wedding plans for me, plans suitable for an upcoming senator, as if she’d called my house instead of her parents’.

  Clearly Mama didn’t know, as she spilled elaborate plans at her frantic speed, never asking why I’d answered Grandpa’s phone, never sensing there was an enemy I hated and that she should hate too. Hate for what he’d brought to us, and what he’d shared after the hearing.

  As I put back everything I’d taken from Grandpa’s house, except the books, I wanted to ask her if she knew her letters had never been opened. The letters still weren’t opened. I couldn’t. But Grandpa could, and someday he would, and Mama’s frantic running would slow down enough to know.

  Chapter 45

  I slipped into the back of Non Bookends, enemy territory and a home-away-from-home all in one. I dropped my camera case and purse in Grandma’s little nook, glad she wasn’t in there, just the aroma of her—books, coffee, and stubbornness.

  “New books just came in.” One of Grandma’s regulars met me as I stepped from her door. “Your grandmother ran out all of a sudden. For more price ribbons or something. She left me in charge when she went.”

  I was always the outsider in Grandma’s crusade. It was in her customer’s tone and the way she looked at me. I was family, but an outsider. “You want to open the packages?”

  The woman’s eyes rounded. “Could I?”

  “Sure.” I followed her, nearly running to keep up, to Grandma’s table. To a stack the woman swiped to the edge and butted against her hips, now a crusader instead of a mere crusadee.

  I walked to the far side where Grandma usually sat, pretended to sort and organize tags and pens and whatever else made the woman trust that I was trusting her…even if Grandma wouldn’t. I spotted two notes in Grandma’s hand, messages from Frank telling me I was behind in my training. I dropped them into the trash and watched the woman open the first package, listening to hear if some chant was involved. With all of the regality of the Oscars, the woman withdrew the book from its package as I dropped into Grandma’s chair.

  “Mutiny on the Bounty,” the woman whispered. “W.” She set the book aside.

  I stood and walked behind some shelves, listening while she opened the next.

  “Forever Amber.”

  I came back to my seat, dusting my hands.

  “Hmmm, H maybe.” The woman set the book in its own spot.

  I bristled, one of my favorite literary phrases, that this nonfamily person was privy to Grandma’s system.

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel. A.”

  “We already have one of those, and that title belongs under W,” I corrected her.

  The woman stared at me. “You’re wrong. There are two reasons for this book, so it belongs in two places. I’m certain that’s why Mavis ordered a second. A.” She clapped the book on Grandma’s table.

  My non-store voice teemed with retorts of Get out…leave my family’s bookstore alone, ready to explode as beige corduroy flashed across a narrow gap between shelves. Get out…leave my family’s bookstore alone. I stared where he went, then stepped away from the table to the nearest tier of books and slid around the edge.

  I eased to the right as the woman opened and announced the next book’s title, pressed my back against and peeked around the shelves. He was there, standing in a gap several cases over, staring toward the ceiling over my head. Maybe Germany didn’t want him back. I couldn’t blame them. I stole one more peek to see if he’d moved. He hadn’t. He was still focused far above my head.

  I looked up, straight up, at the frame that was older, longer, and uglier than all of the others. Burnt looking, a fragile structure of ash and wood, with a dark lump dangling near its top. Moving from the shelves to the wall, I slunk to the back to Grandma’s room and fished my camera out of its case. Staying out of sight, I made my way between where Dietrich had been standing and where I had been, until the frame was clear in my view. I raised my camera and brought the old frame into focus. I zoomed in to the blackened wood and the shattered silver behind the glass. A mirror. I clicked the picture. Then I zoomed in farther for the lump. I steadied my hands, the darkened wood piece weaving in and out of focus…something carved that was attached. I clicked again on a shape far too familiar.

  Chapter 46

  The little runner’s camera was louder than the woman spouting titles across the store. Dietrich was used to verbiage and let it roll past. It was details he was honed to, and a camera’s click was one.

  “Another A,” the woman gushed as if surprised. Dietrich wasn’t. A was for adultery. Mrs. Crawley’s system was simple. W for war…the type of war she knew, and the type the author apparently did too. Not the strategies of war but the consequences, instead—hearts ravaged by battle, crushed and left behind.

  Cate stared up at the frame he planned to take down. Seeing her photographs would be easier, especially blown up and close. If it was anything like Amabile’s mirror, it would be coming down for good. And he preferred his hands be on it instead of hers.

  She backed away from where she stood and slipped to the rear of the store. He ducked into the sole restroom and closed the door. She would leave. She would go develop that roll of film even if those were the only pictures on it. He was sure. Because that’s what he would do.

  He waited longer than she would need and then waited more. He flushed the lever, ran water in the sink, and stepped through the door. No Cate, no grandmother’s voice; he walked to the main table where the woman was now aligning her stacks of books.

  “New arrivals?” he asked, exaggerating his accent.

  “Why, yes, they just came. I’m getting them organized for Mavis…I mean Mrs. Crawley. She left me in charge while she stepped out.”

  “She has very good taste.” Dietrich tilted his head to read one of the titles. Close enough to pretend admiration, but far enough to stay out of this watchdog’s territory.

  “She sure does.” The woman neatened the stacks, owning them.

  “Beautiful store.” He ran his gaze over the shelves, the nearby furniture…and a finger over the smooth tabletop.

  “Very comfortable. Non Bookends is like a home.”

  “Even the decorations.” He pointed to the rim of frames above their heads. “I noticed them immediately. A couple remind me of my home. Germany. Where I’m from.”

  “Germany,” the woman said it with too much breath. “I knew your accent was from somewhere over there.”

  “Germany is beautiful. You should visit us sometime.”

  “Oh, I’ve never been out of the country. Heck, I’ve hardly been out of New York. But you can find a little of everywhere here. New York City has people from all over the world, you know.”

  “And relics, too. Like that one.” Dietrich pointed upward again, directly at a picture. “That is German, I’m sure.”

  She followed his gaze, cupping her hand over her brows against the glare on the glass. “I can’t even tell what it is.”

  “I believe it’s an Emil Adam painting.” Dietrich cupped his hand also. “An original, possibly.”

  “An original…” The woman move
d closer, then farther, straining to peer where he pointed.

  “It’s worth a lot, in either case, but especially if it’s an original.”

  “I’m not sure…I can’t tell.”

  “It’s the way he does his mountains that makes me think so. Horses were his specialty, but from here I can’t see the details…” Dietrich stepped closer and bent his head back. “I’ve never seen an original.”

  “Should we check? What if Mavis doesn’t know what it is?”

  “That would be a wonderful surprise. She looks like she could use some good news.”

  A series of tsks ratcheted from the woman’s mouth. “You have no idea. Yes, let’s look at it for her. There’s a ladder in the back. A small one, but you’re plenty tall enough to see, once you’re up there.”

  Dietrich unfolded the stepladder she found and worked his way to the top.

  “Be careful.” The woman held the sides, making his climb more treacherous.

  Dietrich stretched and stared at the picture he’d called an Adam, one he knew from the floor really wasn’t. “No, now that I’m close, I’m sorry to say it’s not one of Adam’s paintings. An imitation, likely. That happened to the true artists. Very sorry. And I’m not close enough to see the name of who did it.” He feigned a stretch.

  “Darn. That would have been wonderful if you were right. Well, come on down. I’ll hold the ladder while you do.”

  “Yes, it’s too bad.” Dietrich set a hand on the wall as he maneuvered to step down. “This old frame next to it is falling apart. I’m surprised it hasn’t dropped to the floor.”

  “Which one?” A hand cupped her brow again as the woman squinted where he pointed.

  “This old one. It looks damaged.” He stretched a hand and tapped the wood with a finger. Burned. At the top, a charred lump like the one in his pocket—the one from Oma’s attic. He leaned close to the wall. It couldn’t be… “It’s barely holding together.”

  “We don’t want it dropping on anyone. Bring it down. Mavis can get it fixed or replace it.”