by Diane Moody
Molly’s brows arched high. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”
Olivia studied her for a moment, wondering how to explain without sounding paranoid. The last thing she needed was a town full of folks thinking she was an idiot. “When you asked if I’d traveled alone. When you asked which room I was staying in at the Captain MacVicar. When you—”
Molly put her hand over Olivia’s and closed her eyes for a moment. Olivia waited. When she finally looked up, the slightest hint of sympathy framed her eyes.
“Molly, what is it?”
“My dear, it’s nothing really. Just a silly legend that folks around here like to fancy now and then.”
“What kind of legend?”
Molly withdrew her hand and got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. “It goes back years and years—centuries, actually.” She added a splash of cream then stirred the brew, and took her seat again.
Olivia leaned on the counter. “Tell me about it.”
“Bear with me. This may take a while. You see, back in 1826, Captain Jonathan Wade MacVicar was a successful merchant—what was then called a ‘sailing master’—whose ships routinely carried supplies from England and Europe to America. He was originally from Boston, but decided to build his home here in Caden Cove after falling in love with a young woman he’d met while waiting out a storm here. Catherine Bennett was the daughter of a fellow mariner with whom MacVicar had been associated for a number of years.
“When Catherine accepted Jonathan’s proposal of marriage, he started building a home for his future bride. One where Catherine and members of her family could live while he was away at sea for long periods of time. In 1828, he insisted she and her sisters and their husbands move into the spacious home while he was still at sea, on his way back from England. Then, once he was back home, they would marry in a grand ceremony.”
“I read about that online,” Olivia added.
“Yes, that much of the story is on the website.”
“There’s more?”
Her sad smile returned. “Catherine agreed and moved into the stately home, though she insisted on staying in an upstairs bedroom until she and Jonathan were married. Only then would she and her new husband move into the master bedroom on the first floor.”
“So Catherine lived in the room where I’m staying,” Olivia stated. “The one bearing her name.”
“Yes. Perhaps you noticed the lovely shades of blue carried throughout the room?”
“Yes, of course. Blue has always been my favorite color.”
“Catherine’s as well. And because it was her favorite, Jonathan had the room painted and decorated in pastel shades of blue. But he had another surprise which he’d planned to give her upon his return. While in England, Captain MacVicar met with his friend Josiah Spode II, to select a pattern of china as a wedding gift for his bride back in America.”
“I’m familiar with Spode. In fact, I have several Spode Christmas dishes.”
“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” Molly said with a twinkle in her eye. “I have a few myself.”
Olivia waved off Molly’s offer for a refill, pushing her empty mug aside. “Please, go on. You said Jonathan wanted to surprise Catherine with a set of china. A pretty gutsy move on his part. Most women like to have a say in that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but of course those were different times. Plus, I like to think he knew her taste well enough to make the selection. So he met with Mr. Spode, whose father, Josiah Spode I, was the first potter to underglaze blue printed earthenware for the commercial market. It was quite an accomplishment at the time. It’s told that Jonathan knew at once which pattern Catherine would like, a lovely new floral design with pale blue flowers on a white—”
“The teacup in my room! The one on the mantel, sealed in a glass box?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been so curious about it, but I forgot to ask Trig and Michelle about it.”
“It’s a pattern called Union Wreath First. Other versions would follow, but it was the original that the captain picked for his bride. The crate of securely packed china was loaded onto his schooner, The Merry Martha. He left the next day bound for America, anxious and excited to return home and marry his beloved Catherine.
“But that day would never come. As they neared the coast of Maine, Jonathan set anchor half a mile off shore. The nearest port was in Boston, but as he’d done every other time, he simply boarded a skiff with a couple of his crewmen to ferry themselves to shore. But the sea is as dangerous as it is unpredictable, even to the most experienced sailors. And as they rowed toward shore, the winds picked up suddenly angering the waves and tossing the helpless little boat as if it were made of mere balsa wood. The splintered remains eventually washed ashore. One crewman’s body drifted on shore, but Jonathan and the other crewmen were never found.”
“That has to be one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard,” Olivia said quietly. “This is really true? It really happened?”
“Oh yes, there’s no mistake about that. Once the storm passed, The Merry Martha sent another crew to shore where they found the crewman’s body along with clothes and papers and other debris … including hundreds of pieces of broken china.”
Olivia waited patiently as Molly dabbed her eyes. “How silly of me. I’ve heard and told this story so many times, you’d think I wouldn’t have a tear left in me.”
“Go on.”
“Catherine was heartbroken, of course. News of the tragedy spread throughout the entire coastal area, and folks gathered to help search the miles of shoreline. Several days later, while walking the beach three miles south of here, a young man found a saucer—the only piece of the Spode china that was still intact. But when the tragic story was published in a local newspaper, a woman contacted the authorities, telling them she’d found a teacup along the shore where she lived, some five miles south of Caden Cove. And so it was, the cup and saucer were returned to Catherine, the only pieces not cracked or shattered by the storm.”
“I wondered why it was kept sealed in that glass box,” Olivia said. “With so much history, I’m surprised it isn’t kept in a vault or at least out of harm’s way. Why do you think it’s kept in a guest room?”
Molly sat back. “I’m glad you asked, Olivia. Because the answer leads us to the legend.”
Back in her room at the inn, Olivia stared at the cup and saucer on the mantel as she talked to her friend back home. “It was surreal, Ellen, hearing her tell this story that explained so much about this home, and specifically this room.”
“I can’t believe this. In all our visits to the MacVicar, we never heard any of this before! You’d think they’d have a brochure or something.”
“Wait ‘til you hear the rest of it. When Molly began to tell me more, at first I was completely into it, hanging on her every word.”
“What do you mean ‘at first’?”
“It was such a tragic, beautiful love story. Hearing her tell it, I felt like I was right there, witnessing it myself. Right up to the point of the mysterious sequence of events involving lost love and leap years.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“It seems the night the captain was lost at sea was February 29th, 1828.”
“Okay. It was leap year. So what?”
“Through all the years since that night, a strange phenomenon has occurred. Molly said the MacVicar remained in the family for decades until 1896 when it was sold and converted into a rooming house. When it opened its doors for business, the first guest to stay in the Catherine Room was a young woman named Betsy-something. I can’t remember her last name.”
“You’re not going to recount a list of everyone who has ever stayed in that room, are you?”
“No. Well, sort of. Just hold your horses. I’m getting there. So Betsy was betrothed to a young man named Adam-something, who was killed in a freak hunting accident just days before they were to be married.”
“How awful. And what
a coincidence that both Catherine and Betsy—”
“Lost their loves?” Olivia added. “But it gets even stranger when you factor in that it happened on February 29th of that year.”
“Whoa.”
“But stranger still, Molly told me, in all the leap years since that happened, there have been five other cases of single women occupying Catherine’s room at the MacVicar on February 29th who have also lost love.”
“Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous.”
“In 1912, another young woman was staying in the Catherine Room on February 29th when her fiancé just disappeared. They never found him. Not a trace.”
“But—”
“In 1920, after the MacVicar was remodeled as an inn, or today what we’d call a bed and breakfast, another single woman was occupying the Catherine when . . . well, I can’t remember what happened to that one. But same thing. Fiancé killed on February 29th. Then another one lost her fiancé on an Italian battlefield in World War II. He died on February 29th, 1944.”
“Okay, I get it. They’re all tragic love stories that happened on the same day of the year. Yes, it’s a bizarre series of coincidences, but what has any of this got to do with you?”
“Folks here believe it’s much more than mere coincidence, more like a legend of some kind. Apparently, whenever a single woman stays in that room on February 29th, they all watch and wait to see if she’ll be the one to break the curse.”
“A curse?” Ellen cackled. “Surely they’re kidding. They can’t be serious, can they?”
“That’s just it. Molly was completely serious. I’ll admit there was a twinkle in her eye, but she never gave any indication it was just a joke. I had a hard time keeping a straight face while she was telling me all of this. And when she was done, I could not stop laughing! I apologized because I think I offended her. As I left, she was sweet, shrugged it off like it was no big deal, but I could tell she didn’t mean it.”
“But you’re not even involved in a relationship! Isn’t that a rather important piece of the puzzle?”
Olivia fell back against the pillows on the bed, laughing. “I said the same thing! It’s all so absurd, isn’t it? But it sure explains all the strange looks I’ve been getting. I’m just wondering if these folks are all a bit addled, y’know? Maybe all this snow gets to them. Or maybe there’s something in the water. Who knows.”
“I hope it’s not contagious. Can’t have you coming home all filled with ghost stories and conspiracy theories.”
“Ellen, when have you ever known me to fall for stuff like that?”
“True. You’re much too practical. Just don’t go falling in love or anything, okay?”
“Because I’m oh-so-prone to falling in love with every man I meet, eh?”
“Yes, but rarely more than twice a day.”
“Yes. Rarely. Goodbye, Ellen.”
“Later, gator.”
Chapter 8
Despite the continuing snowfall, Michele and Trig assured Olivia she would have no problem getting to the book club and back. The sidewalks had been salted and cleared late that afternoon, though another inch or so had fallen in the meantime. She left early enough to grab a quick bite at a small café called Anthony’s just around the corner from the bookstore. There she enjoyed a small dinner salad and her first lobster bisque, a soup so delicious she had to talk herself out of ordering a second bowl.
Just before seven, she gathered her things and made her way to Books & Such.
“Thank goodness!” Molly hugged her as she entered the bookstore. “I was so afraid I might have scared you off and sent you packing!”
“Hardly. It’ll take a lot more than some strange legend to get rid of me, Molly. I love it here.”
Molly took Olivia’s hand in both of hers. “Good. Good! Now come in and meet everyone.”
A small semi-circle of chairs flanked the fireplace though only a couple of people were seated. Others milled around a table of refreshments and chatted amongst themselves. As Molly led her into their midst, Olivia stifled the urge to react as the familiar curiosity filled their eyes. Now that she was in on the secret, it amused her to observe all their strange looks. Molly introduced her to the odd cast of characters, mostly women.
A retired school teacher named Elise Blackburn. Carla Reynolds owned the bakery called The Fussy Muffin and routinely brought goodies to every meeting. Scott Randolphson, a retired corporate executive from New York, was legally blind. At their introduction, he told her he listened to several books a week by audio. His daughter Mavis rarely left his side. She too was an avid reader, and this month’s Binchy selection had been her choice. Mimi Overton ran Little Ones Preschool two blocks over. Mimi, a loud and boisterous sixty-something, wore a velour jogging suit the exact color of Pepto Bismol, though Olivia doubted she’d exercised since Nixon was in the White House. And last was Marilyn Crowder, the proprietor of the Knit Knook, who was already seated and busily knitting what looked to be a scarf from lavender yarn.
Following Molly’s lead, Olivia poured herself a mug of coffee, wrapped a warm, soft cookie in a napkin, then took a seat. Trevor appeared from the back of the shop with an additional rocking chair to add to the circle. His eyes met hers briefly.
“Miss Thomas.”
“Mr. Bass.”
“Now, we’ll have none of that,” the retired school teacher declared, looking over her half-glasses. “Trevor, this is Olivia. Olivia, meet Trevor. This is his bookstore.”
He took a seat near the hearth. “Thank you, Elise, but Miss Thomas and I have already met.” He fixed a tight smile and nodded briefly in Olivia’s direction.
“Never mind him, Olivia. Mr. Bass likes to put on airs, but I assure you he puts his pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.”
A handful of chuckles filled the room. Trevor didn’t seem amused, instead reaching for his copy of Minding Frankie. “Thank you, Elise, for your always delicate choice of words. Now, if we could—”
“Trevor, don’t you have an extra copy for Olivia?” Mimi asked, already heading to the display table.
“That’s okay, I can just look on Molly’s copy here,” Olivia offered.
“Nonsense. Plenty of copies available.” Mimi placed a hardcover in Olivia’s hand. “Now, anyone else need anything? Trevor, you don’t have a cookie or coffee.”
“I’m fine, Mimi. Take a seat.”
“Don’t be silly. You go ahead and start. I’ll fix you something.”
Trevor subtly rolled his eyes and put his glasses back on. “If you insist—”
“I do-oo!” Mimi trilled from behind them.
“Shall we begin?” he asked. “First, I would like to ask that we allow poor Miss Binchy to rest in peace and read no more of her books. As with all her books, I struggled to get through this one, Mavis. With so many extraordinary possibilities out there, I recommend we officially retire Miss Binchy from our book club.”
Mavis blushed as she straightened in her chair. “You’re welcome to your opinion, Trevor, but I find her characters fascinating and the pacing of her stories an absolute delight.”
“Oh my, yes,” Marilyn said, looping a stretch of yarn over her clacking needles. “I found Minding Frankie such a wonderfully layered book. The premise alone—a young man who struggles with alcoholism suddenly finding out he’s fathered a child with a dying woman who’s now dying, then finds himself caring for the baby—well, it’s such a deliciously impossible situation.”
Mimi returned, handing Trevor a plate loaded with cookies as she set his mug of coffee on the table beside him. “Then throw in that busybody social worker who’s bent on taking Frankie away from Noel,” she added, “and you’ve got all the components for a drama in the making.” She brushed her hands together and took her seat. “And in classic Binchy style, there’s a whole network of family and friends who sign on to help care for the little—”
“Yes, and that’s precisely the problem,” Tre
vor snarled. “She always has such an extensive cast of characters, each of them with their own absurd dramas. It’s so confusing, trying to remember who’s who. You practically need a cast list to keep up.”
“I must agree with Trevor on that note,” Scott said, his unseeing eyes roaming over their heads. “Too many characters. She should have entitled this one It Takes a Village. Hillary Clinton would be thrilled.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Scott,” Molly said. “Hillary wasn’t the first one to originate the concept of friends and family helping to raise a child. Besides, you and Trevor are missing the point.”
Trevor crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. “By all means, Molly, enlighten us.”
“This is a story of redemption! It’s a beautiful portrayal of the roles we all play in each other’s lives. Take Emily, for example—the American cousin who moves into this tightknit Dublin neighborhood. Her gifts of organization help weave all these characters together, each one helping the other, using their God-given talents.”
When no one said anything, Olivia decided to join the discussion. “I have to agree with Molly.”
“Surely you aren’t reading some kind of spirituality into this story?” Scott asked.
“Well, no. Not overtly. But as Molly mentioned, we all have gifts and talents and passions that are meant to meet the needs of others. What good does it do if we sit on those, never offering a helping hand where it’s needed? Especially if we’re able or have the resources to help.”
“Good point, Olivia,” Mimi added, scooting to the edge of her seat. “Take me, for example. I love children. Love them. And since Mr. Right hasn’t come along, and I have no kids of my own, I can use my passion for kids by caring for them while their mommies and daddies work.”
“And you do a fine job of it,” Marilyn said, pulling a long string of yarn from the skein. She turned toward Carla sitting next to her. “And how about our favorite baker here? How would we all survive without Carla’s award-winning cakes and pies? Did you all know her Peach Pecan Pie Cake is going to be on the cover of Southern Living next month?”