Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Here’s to the successful move of the post office!” Alex said as he raised a glass high.
“Hear, hear!” Hercules replied from his position behind the bar. Only a dozen men and Hercules’s four boys were on hand tonight. Almost everyone else had already moved up to the new town.
But these daily gatherings were important. The physical labor and emotional toll of the past few months were catching up with people, but they were back on schedule. The only things left to move were four houses and the tavern. They should have no problem getting them moved ahead of the wrecking balls, and now Hercules’s second-oldest son had a plan to make a little extra money.
“The state is paying six dollars for each body that gets dug up from the cemetery and reburied above the flow line,” Bill said. “I could borrow a wagon and round up some kids, and we could make a lot of money. Uncle Alex says we’re too young to work on moving houses, and those two gravediggers the state hired never got anything done.”
That was because the undercover detectives had been pulled from the job and sent to work on proving the case against Bruce Garrett.
“Boy, have you ever dug up a dead body?” Hercules asked.
At fourteen, Bill had the irrational optimism of youth and was not daunted. “They’ll be in coffins, so it won’t be too bad.”
Alex had always thought one of the biggest indignities of losing their town was the removal of their cemeteries. Not only were the living to be kicked off their land, but the dead as well. Digging up a grave was a lot of work, and Alex suspected Bill had no idea what he was getting into.
“Okay, you can do it, but first you need to come up with a plan and a budget,” Alex said, knowing he sounded remarkably like Eloise. “You’ll need shovels, ropes, and a wagon. You’ll have to borrow a pair of horses too, and I doubt you’ll get that for free. Don’t forget to factor in the feed for the horses.”
“I’ve already got it,” Bill said, whipping out a scrap of paper with everything from how much the horses would rent for, to who would loan them the wagon and the pulley. Four neighborhood boys were listed, with wages for each.
“How come you’re paying the Jansen kid less?” Alex asked.
“He’s only twelve and won’t be as much help. I figure we can move two graves a day, and after expenses, I can clear five dollars a day.”
Alex had to admire Bill’s initiative. Before he could say so, the door to the tavern opened, bringing a gust of chilly air and the silhouette of a man he did not recognize. He was old, with a stooped frame and careful gait as he stepped into the tavern, looking around the interior as if in a daze.
“Can I help you, sir?” Hercules asked.
The stranger’s face was weathered and lined with age, his expression carrying an echo of sadness as he stepped farther into the tavern. Then he stopped, his gaze fixed on the iron scrollwork behind the bar.
“I’ve come for my chicken bone,” he said in a gravelly voice.
Everyone froze. The old man wore the hat of a Union officer, and Alex closed the distance in three strides to shake his hand.
“Second Lieutenant Alex Duval, Seventy-first New York Infantry,” he said, citing his regiment from Cuba. After a brief exchange of salutes, the old man replied.
“Captain Eugene Franks, Third Brigade, New York Infantry. I heard this town was on its last legs, and if I was ever going to claim my wishbone, I’d best hurry.”
Alex stood aside and gestured to the scrollwork. Eight wishbones from the Civil War still hung on that rack, but no one had imagined there were still men alive to claim them. The tavern was silent as the old soldier approached the wall, carefully lifting each bone to check for initials. After a few tries, he held one over his head and turned toward the crowd. His face was proud, but his lower lip wobbled furiously with emotion. He couldn’t even speak, but everyone in the tavern stood and applauded. Cheered. Stomped their feet and roared.
Hercules grabbed George Washington’s chair from the wall and held it for the old soldier to sit. Sally brought a mug of ale and bowl of stew. Everyone gathered around to hear the man’s story, which came out in jerks and starts. He’d seen hard service for two years before he broke his leg in 1864 and was invalided out for the duration.
“I felt like a failure for not being there at the end,” he said, which was met with murmurs of protest. Captain Franks held up his hand. “Plenty of good soldiers fought in worse shape than me, and I let those men down. I heard their voices in my head for years. I wasn’t in my right mind. Instead of coming home after the war, I figured it would be better to head out west. I didn’t want my parents seeing me like that. And then after they died, I didn’t see much point in ever coming back. But I heard a rumor this town was getting plowed under, and I figured it was time to make peace.”
“We’re glad you did,” Sally said warmly, but Alex wasn’t sure the old soldier felt the same. His emotions seemed to careen from nostalgia to gloom to anxiety.
“The town square sure looks different,” Captain Franks said. “I’m glad to see the Gilmore Inn is still here. I could see it from almost a mile away.”
“It’s too big to move,” Alex said. “We’ll have a room there for you tonight. On the house.” It was impossible to know the old man’s financial situation, but his clothes were a little shabby, and he could use a new pair of shoes.
The old solider nodded. “I’d be grateful for it. What about the tavern?”
“We start taking it apart this weekend,” Hercules said. “We’ll reassemble it up at the new place.”
For the first time, a genuine smile lit Captain Franks’ face. “Good! There may be others out there who still need to claim their wishbones.”
“And we’ll be waiting for them!” Hercules roared, causing a renewed round of foot-stomping and clapping.
Alex walked Captain Franks to the hotel and got him settled in a room. It had been a joyous evening, but sad too. While the old soldier seemed to appreciate the veneration of the people in the tavern, he was on shaky ground, tormented by memories and regrets that had yet to heal.
Alex didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. It was impossible to know what his life would be like once he moved to Highpoint, but he didn’t want regrets tormenting him in his old age.
That meant he had to do something about Eloise. He’d acted like an impatient idiot the other day, but if he had to choose between saving the tavern and saving Bruce Garrett, the tavern won every time.
But Eloise cared about Garrett, and that meant Alex would do whatever was necessary to help her. He didn’t have time to dash off to New York, but he could write her a letter to tell her she was the cornerstone he wanted to build his new world around. They belonged together, like earth and sky. Beneath her starchy façade, her dreams were as wild and audacious as his. They were better people when they were together. He needed her tedious, pencil-pushing ways to drive them both across the finish line and into a glorious future. She needed him too. If she surrendered to her crippling need for security, she would never soar the way God intended for her.
He returned to his room, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to write.
Eloise’s official courtship by Fletcher Jones began with an awkward visit to the New York Botanical Garden. It was a blustery morning, and they managed only stilted conversation during the carriage ride to the park. Fletcher commented on the weather, and she asked if he enjoyed the outdoors. He didn’t, and after that they struggled to make conversation.
Bruce’s legal quagmire was still at the forefront of her mind, and Fletcher had already been a tremendous help in that area, so perhaps the topic would break this awkward silence. She turned away from the carriage window to provide an update.
“Mr. Garrett’s attorney is optimistic that the evidence you helped me find will be enough to get him released until a trial,” she said.
“And what about the accountant who bought the dolly?”
�
�He’s been arrested.” Oscar Ott initially denied knowing anything about the dolly, but when shown his signature on the purchase form, he backpedaled and stumbled through half a dozen explanations. When none of his excuses held water, he bolted and tried to run. The sheriff had him arrested on the spot.
“The state has several detectives on the job,” Eloise continued. “They have also questioned the cement factory owner and his son but haven’t been able to pin anything on them yet.”
Fletcher nodded sagely. “I’m sure the truth will emerge in the end.”
Their conversation reverted to stiff formality as they stepped through the stone gates leading into the botanical park. They wandered through acres of forest in the middle of the city. A fortune had been spent to preserve this stretch of land for its beauty and history. Eloise couldn’t help but think of Duval Springs, whose trees were just as old, but they would all be torn down to keep this city in operation. Soon an ancient elm tree where Alex once carved their initials in a rush of youthful enthusiasm would be cut down and burned. Only the memory would remain.
A light drizzle drove them toward the conservatory. The glass building had soaring white arches and looked like it belonged in heaven, but their conversation did not improve as they wandered beneath the towering palm trees and jungle ferns.
Everything brightened the moment they turned a corner toward a new wing in the conservatory.
“Cactuses!”
She lifted her skirts to scurry toward a wing different than everything else they’d seen this morning. It had rocky borders and hard-packed sand, and even the air seemed different as she stepped into the arid gallery filled with barrel cactus and prickly pear. She hadn’t seen anything like this since her Arizona days. She reached down to finger the plump petals of a stonecrop plant, its flesh cool between her fingertips.
“How I’ve missed this,” she murmured. “I used to cultivate cactuses.”
There had been a cactus garden surrounding the convent in Arizona, and looking after it had been one of her chores. There wasn’t much to it, but over time she felt a deep affinity for those tough, prickly plants.
“That’s a curious hobby,” Fletcher said. “How did you come to have a fondness for cactuses?”
She supposed most well-bred ladies had never lived in a desert convent. She could evade the topic, but if she and Fletcher were to have any hope of a future, she would need to tell him about the convent and why she’d been there.
“When I was sixteen, I was sent to a convent in Arizona for a few years.” Her fingers grew cold as she kept talking. “There were all types of cactuses there. Pests and scale sometimes infect them, so I took care of that. Sometimes I watered them if things got too dry.”
She continued down the stony path. Fletcher walked beside her, but cowardice kept her staring straight ahead so she couldn’t see his expression.
“That seems a little strange,” he finally said.
Now would be the perfect opportunity to tell him. They were the only people in this part of the conservatory and had complete privacy. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. They barely knew each other, and this was so intensely personal.
“Oh look, they sell them!”
She moved toward the table where a variety of potted cactuses and succulents were available for purchase. Her mind raced as she pretended to survey the variety. Fletcher stood only inches away, waiting for a response she wasn’t prepared to give.
“So . . . the convent,” he prompted.
She straightened. One of the things she had always admired about Fletcher was his calm logic and straightforward dealings. It was time to test that aspect of him. She turned to look him in the eye.
“Fletcher, why do you suppose any sixteen-year-old girl is banished to a desert convent two thousand miles from home?”
He lifted a brow, but there was no other change in his expression. “One would suppose that wayward conduct would be the primary reason.”
“Correct.” Memories of her “wayward conduct” with Alex crowded the edges of her mind, threatening her composure.
Fletcher absorbed her statement with typical nonchalance, indulging in neither outrage nor surprise. He had a two-word response.
“Please continue.”
She didn’t want to, but it was a fair request. “There was once a boy, and I was once a wild and reckless girl. We used to meet secretly in the woods where no one would find us. I think you can imagine how that scenario played out. Especially since I ended up in a convent.”
She kept staring at the cactuses, the muscles in her neck so tense it made her whole body hurt. She counted ten heartbeats before Fletcher finally spoke.
“And did it work? Did it turn you onto a different path?”
“I’ve never done anything else to justify incarceration in a convent.”
This was exquisitely awful but necessary if they were to pursue a serious relationship. There might not even be a relationship after this discussion, so she decided not to share any additional details and turned her attention back to the table of cactuses.
“I think I shall buy three,” she said as she selected a pair of barrel cactuses and one succulent. She carried them to the front of the exhibit to pay for them, and then Fletcher offered to carry the box for her. The air was both damp and chilly as they stepped outside.
“Do you think the cactuses can survive the climate in Manhattan?” he asked agreeably.
“I’m about to find out,” she said with a smile.
It seemed he’d taken her scandalous news in stride. They wandered through the rose garden, which still looked bleak in the early spring gloom. Just as she was beginning to feel at ease, Fletcher startled her with a question she didn’t see coming.
“I’m glad the nuns helped mend your ways,” he said with a note of humor in his voice, “but you don’t really believe all that chapter and verse nonsense they spout, do you?”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, retreating from the world to pray, and all that. It seems remarkably self-centered to me. If there is a God, I can’t imagine he’d respect a life like that.”
Plenty of people thought the same about monastic orders, but it hurt to hear him say it so bluntly. The nuns had created an oasis of beauty and healing in their desert wilderness. Plenty of troubled women sought sanctuary with them while finding a truer connection to God and purpose in the world. Those years had been hard but possibly the most meaningful of her life.
“You don’t believe in God?” she asked cautiously.
He gave a polite laugh. “Well, I’m not going to say ‘no.’ Where would the logic be in that? If He exists and for some inexplicable reason has been hiding for the past two thousand years, it makes sense to go through the motions of faith. And if He doesn’t exist, I’m no worse off for holding myself to a code of moral conduct that has served the world well.”
“Very logical of you.”
He gave a polite nod. “Always.”
Their day in the garden was even more stilted after that. How well did she know Fletcher if she hadn’t realized their mismatch on such an important issue? He was suitable in so many ways, but this was a problem.
When she arrived home, she set the cactuses on her windowsill. Arizona was a part of her life she would never forget. Those days in the arid wilderness had helped forge her into the person she was today, and the cactuses would be a lovely reminder of that time.
Her troubled mind was rocked even further by the delivery of the evening mail. It contained only a single letter, but it was from Alex. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Good evening, Eloise,
Tonight an old soldier came to the tavern to claim the wishbone he left in 1862. His visit made me realize how important this tavern is. It is a lodestone that burns in our collective memory, and it drew that man a thousand miles to come save his wishbone before the town disappears.
The engineers are skeptical of our ability to get the tavern out o
f the valley, but Hercules and I will try. We’ve sunk every dime we have into making it happen. The engineers think we are crazy, but when you love something, price is not an issue. Sometimes love must overrule what reason recommends. I must at least try, or I will forever wonder.
I have the same feeling about you. I can’t stop hoping that we can recapture what we once had, but this time do it right. You aren’t a cuckoo bird, you are my ballast. A more poetic man would compare you to rose petals or moonlight glinting on the water. I can’t. My best memories of you are slogging through an ice storm, balancing books, ordering me to toe the line, and I love you for it. I can’t help but believe that God plunked us down in that valley for a reason. You make me a better man, and I believe between the two of us, we have a purpose in the world.
Come back. Come back to the valley and to me. Duval Springs will be gone soon, but we can build a new home from the ground up and make it perfect for both of us.
Love always,
Alex
She was battling tears by the time she finished the letter. It hurt. She loved him, and a piece of her always would. Alex was laughter and vigor and endless summer days. He was braver than she could ever be, but living on the edge and taunting whirlwinds wasn’t what she wanted in life. And the one time she had asked anything of him, he told her that a tavern mattered more than her father.
In a perfect world, she would be able to take the best pieces of Alex and meld them with Fletcher’s safe and predictable life. But the real world didn’t work that way, and she wasn’t perfect either. She would resent it if someone suggested she should eliminate pieces of her personality to please another. She would just have to keep searching until she found a man who could provide her with the stability she needed.
She slipped Alex’s note into her copy of Treasure Island, then tucked them both high up on the top shelf of her closet. Far away and out of sight.
Chapter
Thirty
By the second week of April, the only building remaining in Duval Springs that was still to be moved was the tavern. The state would soon arrive to demolish the abandoned buildings whose owners had taken the payout and left the valley.
A Desperate Hope Page 25