by Debbie Burns
A wave of apprehension washed over Carter regarding what he was about to tell Myra. “My grandfather stuck around long enough to witness the birth of my father. Then he took off and was never heard from again, leaving a destitute wife to fend for herself and her son at a time when people needed all the help they could get. No one knows what became of him.
“My father had me later in life, and he’s getting up there in age,” he continued. “This last year or so, he’s become set on learning the truth behind his father’s disappearance. Recently, he uprooted a lead pointing to Galena. I’ve no idea what I can uncover for him after all this time, but I owe it to him to find out what I can.”
“That’s it?” the redhead interrupted, her voice little more than a whisper.
Carter eyed her in surprise. “Sorry to disappoint. That’s about as dramatic as I get.”
Myra pursed her thin lips. “Tell me your grandfather’s name, son.”
“Myron. Myron O’Brien.”
Myra pulled in a slow breath and closed her eyes, reminding him again of a willow tree just before a late fall storm. “And fate has sent you my way after all these years.”
Carter shifted uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair. Knowing there was a possibility his words could cause this gentle woman pain, he chose them as cautiously as he could. “After what I showed him, your librarian believes there’s reason to think it might be my grandfather’s body that was dumped in the Galena River in 1940. The body was recovered fifty or so miles downriver from here but was in bad enough shape it was never identified. Their descriptions are a match. The man had been shot twice in the chest.”
“That murder was the talk of the town for years; at least that’s how I remember it from my childhood. I was an infant at the time of the shooting, born that very year,” Myra said. “And why is Bob directing you to my doorstep?”
“The, uh, victim was linked to your family—to this house. It was believed he’d been contracted to do some work here. I was hoping you may have some information about him.”
“On a carpenter who worked here eighty years ago?”
Carter swallowed. He’d come all this way but was close to abandoning further inquiry. Then he caught something in the old woman’s gaze, a strength—more than a strength, a challenge—and pressed forward. “I found a series of editorials published around then too. Some of them were filled with gossip about a controversial friendship between a married woman and an out-of-towner. Not just an out-of-towner. Her carpenter. The same person one of the later editorials alluded to having found his way to a watery grave. When you connect the dots, it seems as if a few people in town suspected that the woman might have been a Moore. Your mother, Bob was guessing.”
“Oh, that’s enough!” the redhead blurted out, setting her juice noisily on the side table. Grabbing the arm of the couch, she pushed to her feet and steadied herself. “Myra doesn’t need this. Especially not today. Her friends are getting married here tomorrow, and she’s under enough stress as it is.”
“Josie,” Myra said before he could reply. “Sit, dear. If this young man wants to ask questions and make inferences about my mother, it doesn’t hurt me.”
When she kept standing and set balled-up fists against her hips, Myra pushed up from the couch with similar effort, only her struggle wasn’t temporary. The dog stood up on his short legs but didn’t jump down. “Sit down before you fall again, Josie. You’re shaky still. I can see it. And you,” she said, turning to him with a bright intensity in her eyes. “I’d like to see your face better, young man. Come over to the light by the window. The more I look at you, you seem familiar to me. Hauntingly so.”
Surprised but agreeable, Carter allowed Myra to lead him toward the side window of the parlor, guiding him to step into the light pouring inside.
She regarded him in silence for what felt like an eternity. Her eyes were a light, faded blue, and he wasn’t entirely sure if they were watery from age or if there were a few tears brewing on her lids.
Finally, she gave a slight nod and patted his cheek. “Those eyes of yours are remarkable. Startling even. I’ve never seen them in color before.”
Before? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I knew they were light. In my youth I spent many hours wondering about their color—blue or green—but I never would have guessed such a perfect mixture of both.” She slid her hand down his arm, closing her soft, bony fingers over his wrist. “How silly any of us is to think the past is swept away. It surrounds us, just waiting for the opportunity to be let in.”
“Are you saying you think his accusations are true?” the redhead—Josie—said, joining them by the side window.
“Forgive me for being cryptic, Josie, but I spent many hours of my youth looking at this man’s picture—or an uncanny likeness of him anyway. I used to dream I’d marry someone so handsome.”
Using Josie as a brace, Myra returned to the couch and smoothed her hand over her dog’s back. “When the time came, I married for sense, as was my duty. I had all but forgotten that face by then. And now that you’ve come knocking on our door, it’s as clear as if I looked at it yesterday.”
“Ms. Moore, do you mind explaining?”
“You have your grandfather’s eyes, of that I’m certain. For so long, I hoped to learn that man’s identity. Over the years, it became no more than a shadow of a hope. But now that shadow has come knocking. Life is funny that way, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Please, have a seat again, Mr. O’Brien.”
Josie settled back on the couch, looking as pleased by the turn of events as she might over the arrival of a swarm of termites.
Silence fell over the room a second time, and Carter noticed that the front door was still wide open, and his laptop case was abandoned on the stoop. He headed over and grabbed it, then shut the door.
From the way Myra was running her fingers over the stitching on her skirt, he sensed she needed a moment to collect herself.
“This house is remarkable.” He glanced up toward the high, molded ceilings as he sat down. “I took a couple architecture classes. I’m a fan of old Victorian mansions like this one. I’m guessing it’s mid-nineteenth century, correct?”
Myra’s face lightened at his words. “You’re right on the mark. It was finished just after the Civil War. Ulysses Grant is rumored to have dined here on occasion. It’s been in my family for three generations. My husband and I ran it as a B and B for over thirty years. I shut it down after he died.” Myra paused and pursed her lips. “The gardens are still as spectacular as ever, though most of the thanks for that goes to our neighbor. He’s a retired horticulturist who doesn’t seem to know where his yard ends and ours begins, though I’ve had no mind to complain. He’s unofficially taken on the role of master gardener. When Josie has her legs under her, she can give you a tour.”
“I’d like that.”
Even though Josie had pulled a pillow onto her lap and was fidgeting with the silky frays along the side, she seemed to freeze under his direct gaze, reigniting his curiosity.
“Do you like weddings, Mr. O’Brien?” Myra asked.
“Ah, not particularly. Though I’ve no objection to them so long as they aren’t mine.”
“How about tea, then?”
“Tea? It’s tolerable when the coffee’s gone.”
A short-lived smile lit Myra’s face. “Will you be in town tomorrow?”
“Ah, yeah. I planned a day or two break here. I’m driving across the country.”
“Wonderful. As Josie mentioned, two of my dearest friends are getting married here tomorrow. It’s all but consumed us these last few weeks. When it’s over, I’m certain I’ll have more to share with you than I do today. Everything’s a jumble now.”
Carter tried not to show his disappointment as impatience bristled under the surface of his skin. His dad’s quest had rubbed off on him.
Especially now that he was so close to an answer. “I’d be happy to come back once it’s over and you’ve had time for this to settle in.”
“Wonderful. And where is it you’re staying?”
“A hotel outside of town.”
“Not a chain? With you being a fan of architecture?”
“Actually, it is. I’m not big on B and Bs, with the exception of the architecture. That was all I could find in town.”
“You’ll find Galena’s strongest boast is its history. Most of our original homes and buildings are still intact. And your stay won’t be the same if you aren’t in town. I suspect, if you want to understand your grandfather best, you’ll need to embrace this world, not simply pass through it.”
Josie stopped pulling at the frayed pillow and looked at Myra abruptly.
Carter held up his hands, a polite smile returning to his face. “As I said, this is a favor for my father. I’ll settle with simple facts this trip.”
In reply, Myra pressed her eyes shut and kept them closed as she spoke again. “I suspect he was very much like you. Defiant, boyishly charming, and quite the chip on his shoulder. Except he carried a weight you know nothing about. And I daresay, maybe never will.”
Carter kept quiet, hoping she’d offer more. To his disappointment, she didn’t. Instead, she exhaled and reached for Josie’s hand.
Josie didn’t bother hiding her dislike of Myra’s idea. She shook her head abruptly. “No, Myra.” It came out as a whisper, drawing his attention even more.
“It turns out we’ve readied a bedroom just for you, Mr. O’Brien. Nolan’s son cancelled yesterday. Josie, you’ll show him to it, won’t you, if you’ve gotten your legs back? I’d like to sit here and collect my thoughts. So much is coming back in a rush. I wasn’t quite prepared for it.”
Josie’s cheeks flamed bright red. “Myra, we don’t even know him.”
“And now we have an opportunity to do so. Carter O’Brien is welcome to stay as my particular guest. Something tells me you could use the reprieve, couldn’t you, young man?” She directed her last words his way. “I can promise you the best quiche and scones in a hundred miles, by far. And we have tea blends strong enough to suit even the most steadfast of coffee drinkers.”
Beside her, Josie drummed one bare heel in rapid succession on the hardwood floor. Carter met her gaze with one that he suspected revealed a hint of his amusement over her discomfort. He had no idea what her story was, but he certainly wasn’t opposed to finding out while he was here.
“I’ll gladly stay with your permission, ma’am. I know an opportunity when I come across it.”
Chapter 3
Most days, Myra couldn’t remember what she’d had for dinner the night before. Thanks to Carter O’Brien, memories that had been undisturbed for decades were sweeping in with a startling clarity. Myra could practically feel the floor digging into her sitz bones as she hid in her mother’s closet at age eight, a photograph clutched in her hands that wasn’t meant for her.
Pressing in on the edges of this memory were others: of a father and mother who were decades apart in age but seemingly amicable toward one another; of whispers alluded to in town by the older generations but never directly addressed.
Alone in the parlor with her dog curled into a ball and snoring softly beside her, Myra closed her hands over the top of her head. It wasn’t that she wanted to stop the memories from coming. They were like a tangled mess of rope. She wanted to separate them out, take her time examining them.
She overheard Josie stepping out of the kitchen as Carter hauled his luggage inside and down the hall. The dear girl asked for his driver’s license the same as she would if he were checking into an operating B and B, and Carter didn’t object.
Myra didn’t blame Josie for being cautious. With a past like hers, having faith in strangers would most likely remain her biggest challenge. Myra wanted to tell her not to worry, at least not to worry about the things she was worrying about this afternoon.
Carter O’Brien meant no harm. Myra was certain of that much.
But she was transfixed with the memories sweeping over her just the same as if she were riding a magic carpet and peering down at a panorama of the past. All she could do was sit still and let herself be taken away.
Her eight-year-old self had found a photograph tucked inside the back seam of her mother’s prayer book, and she’d wanted a private place to examine it. It was a black and white image of a grown man, and a distinctively handsome one at that. Even as a child she’d known it. Her pulse had raced wildly as she imagined her mother, whose beauty had been the talk of the town before she’d married, with this man instead of her father. Her father’s hair had grayed at the temples, his shoulders were narrow and, in his older years, his mouth had turned down in a frown, even when he was pleased.
How guilty she’d felt by the traitorous thought. She’d loved her father wildly. Born of a family from Sussex, he’d given her a lifelong appreciation for a good cup of tea just as he had a love of books. He’d not wanted anything more than living out his life quietly in this house, and he had.
What secrets had been in her mother’s heart? Now, at the eve of Myra’s life, a stranger had come knocking, and the truth, if she wanted it, was most certainly hers to know.
Chapter 4
A suave and polished journalist showing up unannounced to dig up long-buried secrets wasn’t a good thing. Josie was certain of that.
By the time she got the temperamental printer working and copied Carter’s driver’s license, Zoe had abandoned the sandbox and had tugged Carter outside for a tour of the two-acre grounds. As she stepped out to join them, Josie noticed most of the weekend’s guests had finished their tea, cake, and scones and were dispersing.
Zoe and Carter were halfway down the hillside, and the hair on the back of Josie’s neck prickled at the sight of Zoe being so carefree with a stranger. Her feet itched to join them, but she checked herself. Certainly, there was no better place than here to give Zoe a bit of trust and see what she did with it.
Josie busied herself with cleaning off the empty tables on the expansive brick patio. She smiled as she overheard Zoe. The toad abodes, butterfly boxes, and bird feeders were among Zoe’s most animated stops along the flower beds as they wound their way back up the gently sloping hillside.
Out of the corner of her eye, Josie caught Zoe wrapping a small hand around Carter’s as she pointed out the spot where she was certain she caught a glimpse of a garden fairy this spring. Perhaps sensing the impropriety in the touch, Carter dropped her hand to ruffle her hair. Unabashed, Zoe found it again as soon as he was finished.
Breath catching in her throat, Josie let one of the delicate cups clank against the spout of a kettle nearly hard enough to break it. Zoe had the most trusting nature of anyone she knew. She’s just like Sam.
As they rounded the top of the yard, Carter nodded toward Josie. “Myra’s right. These gardens are spectacular.”
“Thanks.” She set the packed-full busser tub on the closest table and headed over. She slipped his license out of her back pocket and offered it his way.
“Would you like my card?” he asked as he tucked his license back into his wallet. “As I mentioned, I’m freelance, but you can Google me. Plenty of my work is online.”
“Thanks.”
It was a simple, gray-scale business card with his contact information and an image of an old-fashioned typewriter. She’d never known anyone who made their way on this earth exclusively by stringing words together, and was impressed. She was a numbers person. With numbers, she could always find her way. Words were different, complicated. Sometimes they told the truth; other times they were wickedly deceitful.
“So, tell me,” he said with a lopsided grin, “was your asking for my license a formality in case I steal a few towels while I’m here, or in case I follow in my grandfather’s footst
eps?”
Josie fought back a laugh as his words sank in. “Around here, you never know.”
Carter was boyishly charming—she’d grant him that. She bet that smile could grab attention a hundred feet away. And then there was that dimple on his right cheek. But the stubble on his face and the visible strength in his shoulders and arms belied those boyish parts, leaving her in no doubt he was a man in his prime.
“Do you, uh, want to see your room?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
“Wait, Mom! I want to show him my castle first.” Zoe dragged him toward the back of the yard. Josie trailed after them, making mental notes of all the things she needed Zoe to understand before the start of school on Monday.
“Which one is yours?” Carter asked.
Still barefoot, Zoe hopped inside, sinking to her knees in front of the three separate mounds of sand. “Mine is the best one.” Zoe’s challenge was evident in her tone. “I’m really good at making sandcastles. I do it all the time. And those boys are new.”
“Zoe,” Josie corrected her, “honestly.”
Carter seemed unfazed. He knelt, sinking onto the backs of his heels. He clicked his tongue as he inspected the three distinct mounds with the rapt attention of a county fair judge. One was clearly out of the running, hardly any better than a misshapen hill. The other two were close in detail and scope. She knew Zoe’s right off by the trademark curve of the bridge and the tiny sticks she placed atop the spires.
After seeming to notice the direction of Zoe’s hopeful gaze, Carter pointed to it. “This one, right?”
Zoe beamed. “See, Mom? Mine is better. Those mean boys don’t know anything.”