Contrite, Meredith nodded. Then: “Well. Perhaps. Do I have to go pack my bags?”
Benjamin chucked her under her chin and let her go. “I want you to go look inside the bottom cabinet of that rosewood secretary, behind my desk. No—don’t ask any more questions. You’ll understand when you do it.”
Her heart was back to thumping in that slow hard rhythm that hurt her ribs and made it difficult to breathe, but Meredith walked over to the secretary, knelt down, and pulled open the doors.
“My heartwood chest?” She surged to her feet and whirled around.
“I had Hominy fetch it from your room for me.” His face remained bland. “Could you bring it over here?” He gestured to the desktop.
Silently Meredith lifted her heartwood chest from its hiding place, carried it across to the desk, and set it down. Still without speaking, she watched Benjamin position the crutches and hobble around until they stood side by side.
“You didn’t even notice it was gone, did you?”
“No.” She refused to weep, absolutely refused. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied the past several days.” Her gaze flicked to the magnificent diamond-and-pearl ring, then returned to Benjamin.
“So you have.” He nodded toward the chest. “I think it’s time to discuss what’s inside the secret drawer.”
“You did talk with Papa then? I’d wondered.” Meredith retrieved the gingerbread girl cutter, holding it in the palm of her hand. “Will you tell me about it?” she ventured when Benjamin continued to stand silently beside her. “You understand its significance. I can see it in your face.”
It was difficult to force the words out, but she needed to know more than she needed to cling to her pride. “You called me the dramatist, yet you’re the one making such a production over it.” She flashed a brittle smile. “Go ahead. I promise not to have hysterics, no matter how awful a revelation you . . . you . . .”
It was no use. Nerves twined the words, tripping her tongue and making her sound depressingly childish. She pressed her lips together.
“Not awful.” His voice gentled. “Not awful, sweetheart. Just . . . a part of you your father saw a long time ago, that he hoped one day you would see as well.” His fingers traced around the dented cookie cutter, then burrowed beneath the soft cambric cuff of her shirtwaist to press the inside of her wrist. “Don’t look so undone. I love you. Here . . . how about if we sit down? My hands get tired, balancing on these crutches . . .”
The brief interruption steadied her. They moved to the comfortable settee, and Meredith held up the cookie cutter, turning it around. “This was my mother’s favorite, so of course it was mine, too. Garnet and I used to fight over it, after Mama died—is that it?” She searched Benjamin’s face. “A reminder about the importance of family relationships?”
“Not quite.” He flexed his hands in relief, then laced his fingers behind his head. “Jacob told me gingerbread cookies were his favorite. That until after Leah was born, apparently not a week passed but your mother made him some.”
Memories began to stir, making her smile. Making her—weepy. “I tried to continue the tradition after she died. I was the oldest, and I thought it was my responsibility. They never tasted as good as Mama’s . . . I guess that’s why I stopped making them.”
“You stopped making them, my love, because your father was too soft-hearted to refuse them even though they irritated his stomach. When you were about nine, he told me, he almost died because—”
“Because I wouldn’t listen to Garnet, and I made him those gingerbread cookies. I remember.” Jesus. Help me . . . I remember. Mrs. Willowby had gently explained to three terrified little girls that their father mustn’t eat a lot of cookies or spicy foods. Meredith, unable to handle her feelings of guilt, had buried the entire episode—until now. If she hadn’t already been seated, her knees would have buckled beneath her.
Blinking rapidly, Meredith laid the tin cookie cutter in her lap. “He was so sick . . . Mrs. Willowby came back then, to care for us. And it was my fault. Mine”—she lifted her swimming gaze to Benjamin’s—“because I was too stubborn to admit I’d made the cookies because I wanted to. I knew better, knew they weren’t good for Papa. But I was determined n-not to listen to my sisters. God forgive me . . .” She jammed a fist over her mouth and tried to turn away. She’d almost killed her father.
Benjamin’s hands stilled the movement, holding her shoulders in a firm grip. “Do you remember what he told you that day?”
Meredith shook her head. “I made myself forget the entire episode, because I didn’t like the way it made me feel. All these years, Papa has been waiting. Hoping . . . Why didn’t I remember until now?” she choked out. Was she truly that blind to her shortcomings, so stiff-necked in her pride and stubbornness that not once in all the years of wondering had the significance reached her?
Matter-of-factly Benjamin stuffed a handkerchief in her hand. “Might be because you’re a human being. Try to remember the point of the lesson, not the pain, sweetheart. That’s what your father is hoping for.”
The insightful observation calmed her more effectively than a comforting embrace. “Not much doubt of my human failings, is there?” She pressed her fingers against her temples, blew her nose into Benjamin’s handkerchief, then stretched to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Your timing is . . . impeccable. I may be more stubborn than red clay, but I’m not stupid. When I was nine I more or less forced my father to eat cookies that might have killed him. Now you need for me to understand that staying here until the wedding might engender a similar response. Papa would never say anything, because he knows how much I love you. How much I love working as your office manager.”
Benjamin stretched a long arm across the back of the settee, behind her head. His fingers stroked the taut tendons in her neck. “Well . . . did I mention that I hired you for your brains not your beauty?”
Meredith dug her elbow into his ribs. “Now you’ll be without them until November, won’t you?”
“I’m trying not to think about it.” His fingers tightened, turning her face upward. “We both know it’s the right thing to do. Merry-my-love, it’s not just your father who’s struggling with our present arrangements. Like you said, he would never have verbalized those concerns. However, Lowell’s warned me that some of the guests are making remarks. While the gossip is nothing but the workings of petty minds, I’d rather not create a ruckus, ejecting guests for impugning my wife-to-be’s reputation.”
“Why hasn’t someone told me?”
Two warm fingers touched her mouth. “I’m telling you now. This may or may not be Preston Clarke’s work. Regardless of the initial source, you will need to pack your bags. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. Mrs. Biggs has already arranged for a maid to help you.”
His deep blue eyes darkened, and in spite of their surroundings, he pulled her into a hard embrace. “I don’t know how I’ll bear up without you.”
“I don’t know how I’ll bear up without you.”
They exchanged a kiss before Meredith tore free and stumbled to her feet. “We have to stop,” she managed, though she longed to throw herself back into his arms and let the rest of the world hang. Especially the part inhabited by gossiping guests. “I want to”—she groped for the words, fumbling because her emotions were raw—“honor my father. I want to show him I’ve learned the lesson he’s needed for me to learn all these years. I want to honor my heavenly Father as well. I just don’t understand. Why does it have to be so painful?”
Benjamin struggled to his feet. Meredith automatically handed him the crutches. “Life usually is,” he said as he positioned them under his arms. “As I recall, Jesus could have elected a dramatic—and painless—escape for Himself. But He didn’t, which to my way of thinking sort of provides impetus as well as inspiration, for us to follow.”
“How did you come to be so wise, Mr. Walker?” Meredith said, searching the rugged features, memorizing the sheen of his bronz
e-tipped hair, the thick dark lashes framing those incredible eyes that could see straight into her soul. “You’ve always been smart. But until lately, you haven’t looked at life from a spiritual perspective.” She paused, then admitted in a quiet voice, “Nor have I.”
“I’d say God’s been busy, cutting out all the stubborn knotholes in both our lives, hmm?”
“I love you.” She bit her lip, trying to keep her voice steady. “Let’s leave as early as we can in the morning, please. I’m afraid if I think about this too much, I might forget the lesson I just learned.”
She glanced across the room, to the heartwood chest on top of Benjamin’s desk. “Will you keep my heartwood chest for me? I can’t explain it, but knowing that it’s with you will help somehow.”
“You don’t have to explain.” His voice was deeper, rougher than usual. “I understand very well.”
For several moments after Meredith left, Ben sat deep in thought, behind his desk. One hand rested on top of the heartwood chest. Then, his mood pensive, he slowly opened a drawer and withdrew a slip of paper with a single sentence type written across the middle of the page: THERE ARE MORE DANGEROUS FLAMES THAN THOSE FANNED BY WAGGING TONGUES.
The private detectives did not know who had slipped the note under his door. Molly, who cleaned his rooms, had merely placed the folded paper unread on Ben’s bureau; she had not noticed any strangers lurking about when she had arrived that morning at her usual time.
The chief of police had regretfully admitted that the threat was too vague for him to open an investigation, though he promised to have a couple of men patrol the grounds for a day or two.
“Got any enemies, Mr. Walker?” he’d asked, half joking.
Only one, Ben wanted to say. But he shrugged, shook his head, and thanked the chief for his time.
When Hominy arrived, Ben gestured him over to the desk. “I’ve made the arrangements for Meredith to leave,” he said. “She thinks it’s because of the gossip. I’d like to keep it that way. When we return from Sinclair Run”—he paused and inhaled, hands clenching the arms of his rolling chair—“I reckon you’ll need to do a little quiet sleuthing. Just, don’t get caught at it, my friend.”
“It’s Mr. Clarke who needs to be caught, Mr. Ben. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Keep within the law. I’ve broken a commandment or two over the years, but things are different now. I’ve changed.” His gaze touched on the sheet of paper. “Regardless of what happens, I want to do what’s right, not what’s right for me.”
Hominy tugged his ear, his gaze brooding. “Even if he goes scotfree? Even if that note’s a threat, not just a taunt?”
Gently Ben lifted the heartwood chest onto his lap. “A few moments ago, Meredith agreed to leave—even though it was painful, she told me—because she wants to honor not only her father, but God.” He looked up at his faithful manservant. “How can I do any less, Hominy?”
Fifty
It was a little past 8:30 in the evening, and the Excelsior’s dining room was almost empty except for Benjamin and Meredith and a few lingering guests scattered among the other tables. Waiters moved more leisurely, the conversational din had softened to murmurs, and the pianist Benjamin had hired for the past week switched from a Chopin étude to a melancholy Stephen Foster melody that made Meredith’s eyes sting.
She glanced through the window beside her, where dusk had deepened the surroundings to a soft ebonized matte. Golden haloes of lamplight illuminated a stream of hotel guests, many of them doubtless headed for the open-air concert in front of the courthouse. Others might be on their way to enjoy a traveling production of The Taming of the Shrew or a lecture at one of the local churches—a variety of summertime entertainment was available this particular evening, Meredith remembered. After all, she had compiled and posted the list on the activities board that morning.
None of them appealed to her or Benjamin, and Benjamin’s ankle provided a handy excuse to spend their last evening alone for almost two months quietly here at a largely deserted hotel. Only . . . Meredith picked at the lima beans cooling on her plate. It had been difficult to enjoy her final evening meal. Gaspar had outdone himself to make all her favorites—chicken pot pie, stewed tomatoes, the baby limas. Fresh Georgia peaches. For dessert, Edward, their waiter, told her that Gaspar had baked an apple dumpling bursting with caramel and nuts, just for Meredith.
“With cream sauce,” he ended now as he removed her plate, his freckled face struggling to maintain its aloofness.
After he left, Benjamin leaned over the table. “Sweetheart, promise me you’ll eat better while you’re at home,” he said, “or I’ll find myself marrying a willow switch instead of a bride.”
“I’ve agreed to go, but my appetite is protesting even if the rest of me isn’t.” She tried for a smile. “Perhaps it’s also the weather. It’s miserably hot.”
“Hominy’s joints have been aching all day, he told me. Probably be a storm tonight, clear the air a bit. Hopefully our trip tomorrow morning will be more pleasant.” His expression belied the words.
Pleasant was not the word Meredith would have chosen, but for Benjamin’s sake she launched into a spate of cheerful conversation. “The house will be nice and cool regardless. Papa built it with the best exposure to catch the breezes. I remember a night like this when I was eleven. My sisters and I sneaked outside after Papa had gone to bed. We went skinny-dipping in the run.” Absently she arranged her napkin into the fan shape one of the waiters had taught her, months earlier. “At that time of the year it was shallow, no danger of us drowning, and we enjoyed a glorious half-hour of forbidden fun. When we sneaked back to the house, Papa was waiting on the top step of the porch.”
Benjamin reached across to remove the napkin and toss it aside. His warm fingers, so much larger than hers, stroked the back of her hand. “What did your father do?”
“Tanned our hides, as we deserved. But tears were pouring down his face the whole time, which sobered the three of us more than the spanking. My sisters seldom disobeyed after that.”
“I notice you don’t include yourself.”
“Every family needs a rebel. But I’ve learned my lesson. My father’s a wonderful example of how I think God treats His children.” She chewed her lower lip, realizing too late that she should have reminisced about a different topic. “I wish I were a more tractable child for them both. But at least I have a visual reminder now, since you helped me to understand why Papa put that cookie cutter in my heartwood chest.”
“Want to change your mind, bring it with you?”
“Not really. Like I tried to explain, it helps me—makes our separation less painful, knowing that the most precious part of my past is being watched over by the man God has provided to go with me into the future.”
A half-hour later, while Meredith did her best to appease Gaspar’s wounded feelings by eating almost half of the apple dumpling, Benjamin suggested a walk around the grounds. “I’ll be fine if we stick to the path,” he promised. “And I’ll even stay in this infernal chair, so you won’t fret about how the crutches chafe the palms of my hands.” He glanced around. “Let’s check whether we can sneak out before Hominy returns to see if we’re through with our meal.”
The possibility of a small insurrection appealed, and Meredith perked up. “I need to make a quick stop by my room. Go ahead, I’ll meet you in ten minutes . . . at the side entrance? Under the elm?”
He winked at her. “Done.”
But Mr. Dayton stopped her at the entrance to the dining room, his basset-hound face even more mournful than usual. “Miss Sinclair?”
Meredith glanced over at the grandfather clock. “Yes? What is it, Mr. Dayton?”
He cleared his throat, and she was amazed when a tide of red crept across the restaurant manager’s gaunt cheeks. “Since, ah, you are leaving us first thing in the morning, I wanted to . . . that is—this might be the last opportunity for me to wish you well. I wanted you to know—I’ve never seen
Mr. Walker look happier.”
“Oh . . .” Impulsively Meredith threw her arms around the shocked man in a brief but fierce hug. “It won’t be your last opportunity.” She stepped back, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please. You must promise to attend the wedding in November. We would both be honored by your presence.”
He cleared his throat again, looking awkward as well as stunned. For the first time since Meredith had met him, a smile crept across his face. Even more incredible, a suspicious dampness gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Well. I . . . um . . . the honor is entirely mine.”
“Good. Then I’ll expect to see you in church, come November.”
She waved a cheerful farewell, then escaped before they further embarrassed themselves.
Eight minutes later, humming beneath her breath, Meredith started back across the sitting area of her suite. She was two steps away from the door when she heard a faint muffled noise, emanating from somewhere down the hall—no. Behind her? Outside, toward the dining room wing? It sounded, she mused with a little laugh as she reached for the doorknob, sort of like a soft explosion of feathers. Oh. Now she remembered. There was a fireworks display somewhere in town, and—
The door wouldn’t open. Frowning, she twisted and tugged, growing more annoyed with each passing second.
Then she smelled the smoke.
And through the window heard a woman scream.
Revelation followed by instant denial froze Meredith where she stood, paralyzing her body as though she’d been propelled headfirst into an ice block. She stared at the shiny brass doorknob, at the intricate design of the rectangular escutcheon surrounding it, at her hands wrapped around the knob. The words pushed their way back into her brain, but it was not until a gossamer strand of smoke floated up from beneath the door panel and drifted past her nose that the paralysis shattered.
Fire! The hotel’s on fire! She had to escape, had to open the door, had to find Benjamin, had to sound the alarm, had to make sure nobody was trapped, had to open the door. She was pounding, kicking, finally yelling at the top of her lungs, but the panel wouldn’t yield, and she could feel the heat, hear the crackling, rustling roar of flames rushing down the hall, and she knew that she could not escape through the door, that she would have to find another way.
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 42