Spring House

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  Megan drove up Route 13 past the turnoff to Cape Hudson, a picturesque town that bordered the Chesapeake Bay. In the off-season, the surrounding area sported close to ten thousand residents, but in the summer, that number grew tenfold.

  Cape Hudson consisted of a central street where the majority of its businesses were located. In the winter, some would close shop, while others cut back on their hours. In recent years, beachfront property on the Virginia mainland had become excessively expensive, causing more folks to turn to Cape Hudson for an affordable vacation option. The summer season that had once begun on Memorial Day and run through Labor Day now extended from mid-April through Thanksgiving. The first of the early-bird tourists would arrive in a couple of weeks.

  Megan continued driving a few more miles before spotting the fifty acres of vines that belonged to Beacon Vineyards. The land had been leased to the Garrisons for years through the Winter Cottage trust, and now her third cousin Hank Garrison had taken over and was expanding the operation. Hank, who had served with Scott in the marines, had left a promising military career shortly after Scott’s death and moved back home. He was now in the process of building the Eastern Shore’s largest winery.

  Megan and Hank shared the same great-great-grandparents, George and Julia Buchanan. Whereas Megan descended from their son, Robert, Hank’s line extended from the Buchanans’ daughter, Victoria. Megan and Hank, along with Deacon and Hank’s sister, Rebecca, spent summers on the Chesapeake Bay, and the four remained close.

  Hank wanted Winter Cottage renovated not so much for its historical significance but because the house would eventually become a tourist attraction that would also help his soon-to-be-launched winery. Hank’s girlfriend, Lucy, the new caretaker of Winter Cottage, had more sentimental reasons for the renovation, but she too saw the business potential. In Lucy’s mind, Winter Cottage was destined to be a thriving wedding venue.

  Lucy and Hank had big plans for the property and were betting large that it would be stunning when it was complete. All this boiled down to Megan’s successful completion of the restoration on time and within budget.

  She turned right at the newly constructed twin brick pillars, each sporting a metal plaque that read BEACON VINEYARDS. Winter Cottage was located up ahead on the shore of the Chesapeake Bay. As dust kicked up around the wheels of her truck, she spotted Winter Cottage’s copper roof, which peeked out from behind the trees. To the right, the spire of an 1840s brick lighthouse jutted up toward blue sky. The lighthouse had been dark for seventy years and, like Winter Cottage, was in need of an extensive restoration. If somehow she managed to have this baby and restore both Spring House and Winter Cottage, then the lighthouse would be next on her list.

  If, if, if.

  All the restoration work began with Spring House, which would become Lucy and Natasha’s home. Spring House would be the base of operations for all the projects for several years to come. So it had to be not only preserved but also dragged into the twenty-first century to serve as a proper home.

  Megan was the champion of big dreams and had had a lot of them over the years. So far, though, her follow-through hadn’t kept pace.

  “One problem at a time, Megan,” she said to herself.

  She ignored her growing to-do list for Winter Cottage and the lighthouse and kept her focus on Spring House.

  She followed the dirt road to the left, veering away from the lighthouse and the old hunting lodge toward a stand of tall brush that wrapped around shorter fruit trees twisted by years of wind from the bay. Nestled among the trees was the white clapboard house she had seen in Delany’s photograph.

  It now appeared much the same, though the weather-beaten red tin roof had been damaged in several storms, and the ten-foot-wide porch that wrapped around the exterior had so much rot it would have to be torn off or replaced eventually. The floor-to-ceiling windows and dark storm shutters remained intact, as did the front door, which was outfitted with a brass pineapple knocker.

  She was pleased to see the arrival of the big blue dumpster that she had ordered the previous week. It had a capacity of thirteen hundred cubic feet with a sixteen-thousand-pound weight limit. And she knew after her multiple tours through the house that she would need every bit of that space. The house was crammed with clutter from floor to ceiling, and judging by the faint smell of mildew, there was water damage that meant walls would have to come out along with an outdated kitchen and bathroom. No doubt that blue dumpster would be filled to the brim by the time she was finished with this place.

  Megan pressed her hand to the small of her back as she gathered her purse and climbed the steps. She crossed the wooden porch to a red front door faded and streaked by salt air. As sweet smelling as Chesapeake Bay’s air could be, it was brutal on houses. Without maintenance, paint peeled, hinges rusted, and boards split in the briny shore air. She only prayed the damage to Spring House didn’t extend to its foundation.

  Megan fumbled with iron keys that dated back a century and then slid the one shaped like a large F into the lock. It took a little twisting, turning, and some jiggling to get the lock to give. When its tumblers reluctantly clicked into place, the door creaked open.

  Stale air drifted out of Spring House like a tired yawn as sunlight streaked in and dust danced and swirled in the beams of light. “Time to rise and shine.”

  The house almost moaned like a sleeping giant, and she sensed it was not the least bit interested in rising. It had been left alone for decades and was content to be forgotten.

  “Leave me be,” it seemed to whisper.

  “No way, my friend,” she said. “We’re going to reinvent ourselves together.”

  The center hallway was packed with a collection of mismatched bookshelves that were crammed full of magazines, books, and papers. The limited remaining wall space was filled with photographs in inexpensive dime-store frames. The floor was covered in sailcloth painted in a black-and-white checkerboard tile pattern. The stiff cloth was covered in decades of dirt and stretched the length of the hallway. But despite its age and neglect, she suspected that, under the grime, the original cloth still might be salvaged with a good cleaning.

  Once the clutter was stripped away, she knew there would be hardwood floors, crown moldings, and marble fireplaces aching to be rediscovered. Her excitement grew as she anticipated all the discoveries waiting for her. Regardless of the time involved, she would bring Spring House back to life.

  The baby kicked hard against her ribs, reminding her that the best-laid plans often ventured off course.

  The rumble of tires had her turning to see Lucy Kincaid pull up in her yellow Jeep. Blonde hair with a blue streak that matched her eyes made her a sight to see. She had turned more than a few heads in town. It would have been easy to resent Lucy if she were not so down to earth and kind. She had been living in this still, remote community for only four months, but already locals considered her, well, a local.

  Not only had she won over the community but she was also tackling these restoration projects that were destined to stretch out for years. On top of that, she was now raising her half sister, Natasha, whom she was in the process of adopting.

  Lucy’s German shepherd, Dolly, bounded out of the Jeep and barked before dashing into a thicket of trees as Lucy’s cowboy boots thudded across the front porch. “Tell me the party hasn’t started without me,” she said, grinning.

  Her Tennessee-laced accent conjured images of the honky-tonks of Nashville’s Lower Broadway and its aged bourbon that still stained her trademark blue cowboy boots.

  Lucy sported a red Nashville T-shirt featuring a bucking bronco, and her worn jeans skimmed a slim, athletic figure. A spark in her gaze hinted at a life filled with fun that had always eluded Megan.

  Dolly barked from the brush, reappeared, and then, catching the scent of a squirrel or deer, bounded back into the tall grass, happily barking.

  “When did you get here?” Lucy asked. “I thought you had a doctor’s appointment in Norfolk th
is morning.”

  “All done in record time, thankfully. I just arrived,” Megan said.

  “How did the checkup go?” Lucy asked.

  “It’s all good.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Natasha and her history project arrive at school?”

  “I left her at the school dressed as a Greek senator complete with laurels in her hair. She’s ready to talk about Julius Caesar.”

  The toga was a white bedsheet, and the laurel was ivy from the surrounding woods. “She looked cute.”

  “She was worried it made her look stupid until she saw three other girls dressed just like her.”

  “Ah, we all want to fit in during middle school.”

  “Her more than most,” Lucy said. “But I’m hoping that settles as soon as she figures out her big sister is not going anywhere.”

  Natasha’s mother had died two years earlier, and the father she shared with Lucy had little interest in raising her. The girl had spent the last couple of years either being bounced between neighbors or hiding in Winter Cottage.

  Lucy turned and called for Dolly, who quickly burst out of the undergrowth and up the stairs, wagging her tail and licking Megan’s hands.

  Megan scratched the dog’s head. “Hey, girl.”

  “So what’s your assessment?” As Lucy stepped closer, she studied Megan’s swollen belly, patted it gently, and smiled. “Will we be finished by fall so the crew can gut Winter Cottage?”

  “It’s going to be tight.” As Megan thought about the schedule and the baby, her constant hum of worry kicked up a notch. She had disappointed so many people in her life, and she did not want to add Lucy to her list.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Lucy said, “We’ll figure it out, Megan. Don’t make that worried face.”

  Megan moistened her lips and relaxed her frown. “I’m not making a worried face.”

  Lucy scrunched hers up. “Yes, you are. Like I tell Natasha, your face is going to stick in a frown if you’re not careful.”

  Megan smiled, hoping if she projected Lucy’s relaxed attitude, she would unwind the tension knotted in her back. What was it that Lucy called her life philosophy? The law of attraction? “Our thoughts,” she often said, “manifest in our lives.” Megan certainly had never once thought about the troubles that had manifested with Scott, his death, or the baby, so she was tempted to call bullshit on the attracting-law theory.

  Lucy cupped her hands on Megan’s belly. “Don’t let your mama’s worries bother you, little spud. Life has a way of sorting itself out.”

  “The moving and construction contractor will be back here first thing in the morning along with his crew. I thought we’d need at least a day to get our bearings.”

  “I can’t wait to get this place cleaned out and renovated. I miss a modern bathroom and shower.”

  Both women had been in the house a couple of weeks earlier as they walked the property with the contractor, Ron Tucker. As Lucy talked about what she wanted to see, he made notes occasionally, frowned, tapped on a calculator, and then promised to work up estimates.

  The walk-through had not only confirmed this was going to be an expensive job but also convinced Megan that Samuel Jessup had been a pack rat.

  Megan flipped the light switch. Two overhead bulbs barely spit out enough light along the entry hallway that stretched from the front door all the way to the back and into the kitchen addition.

  “You met my grandfather several times,” Lucy said. “Was he always collecting stuff?”

  Megan had been hearing about her family history since she was a little girl. Her father always had a story about Claire or Samuel, and she knew those stories well.

  But Lucy hadn’t had the luxury of a family history until she moved back to Cape Hudson. Lucy’s mother, Samuel’s daughter, had left the shore when she was eighteen and pregnant with Lucy. She had never returned. Until her death, Lucy’s mother, Beth, had never once mentioned Winter Cottage or her daughter’s deep roots in this community.

  “I never stepped inside this house,” Megan said. “He always met us at Winter Cottage when I visited with my mom, my dad, and my brother.”

  “Was your dad close to Samuel?” Lucy asked.

  Megan shrugged. “Claire called Samuel and Dad her boys. Dad said Samuel taught him how to fish when he was six and to sail on the bay when he was eight. He said Samuel was quiet but always a patient teacher.”

  “Did they see each other much?” Lucy asked.

  “Until Dad was about ten. Then Claire decided Dad needed more education, so she enrolled him in a private high school in Alexandria. From then on he spent only summers or holiday breaks on the shore. And with Samuel sailing with the merchant marines, there were few times they crossed paths.”

  “But you met him once or twice. What did you think of Samuel?” Lucy asked.

  “He was nice enough and talked to me about the history of Winter Cottage. When I was working on my dissertation, I interviewed him again. He was charming, but I got the sense there was a lot he wasn’t telling me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things to do with the families. I think Samuel took a lot of secrets to his grave.”

  “Do you think he knew about Victoria?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucy leaned in toward a picture that featured Samuel standing on the bridge of a ship. She guessed it had been taken in the 1930s. Samuel Jessup in his prime was a very handsome man. Stark eyes were offset by suntanned skin and a shock of light hair. Looking at this picture, it was easy to see where Lucy had inherited her looks.

  According to Claire’s videotapes, Samuel’s biological father had been a local waterman by the name of James Latimer. An internet search had produced a picture taken in 1916, the year Samuel was born. A side-by-side comparison of Samuel and James left no doubt that the men had been father and son.

  “It’s like James cloned himself,” Lucy said.

  “You look like James too.”

  “So did my mother,” Lucy said. “Funny how genetics works.” She moved to the next picture. “It’s too bad I didn’t know about this life on the Eastern Shore sooner. I feel like I missed so much.”

  Megan opened the tall oak pocket doors of Samuel Jessup’s library and turned on the old light switch. A couple of lights flickered, their illumination barely reaching the corners. This was her first good look at Samuel’s study in a couple of weeks, and it seemed worse than she remembered. Though she had always expected this renovation to be extensive, she was again unprepared for the level of memorabilia the old man had crammed into his life.

  The room was filled with mounds of books, magazines, and newspapers that towered on either side of a central pathway, which branched to the left toward a chair and a fireplace framed in a carved wooden mantel. The trail went right and ended at a six-foot-long mahogany desk covered with more piles of yellowing papers, charts, and pictures.

  Megan had done some research on organizing, knowing there were tried-and-true methods to taming madness like this. What she had learned was to start with the vertical surfaces. She would tackle the desk, side tables, and mantel first.

  Lucy clicked on the black light switch on the wall, and more low-wattage bulbs spit out meager circles of light.

  The study was a large room with high ceilings and four east-facing windows draped with dark curtains. By all rights, the room should have been light and airy, but the window treatments, coupled with dark paint covered by more framed photographs, brought the space crashing in.

  She crossed the study, slowly navigating the narrow pathway to a tall set of curtains. She pulled each dusty panel back, allowing in bright sunshine. Dust particles danced in the sunbeams as the room illuminated.

  Megan pulled a hair tie from around her wrist and, after combing her fingers through her dark hair, fastened it into a ponytail. “He certainly liked having his belongings around him,” Megan said.

  Lucy crossed to one of the walls and studied more p
ictures spanning from World War II through the Korean War and Vietnam. “Mom was like this. She hung on to more stuff. I must have donated or thrown out two dozen packed bags after she died.”

  “Your grandfather was one of the few merchant marines who requested work in war zones,” Megan said.

  Lucy picked up an old book and leafed through its yellowed pages. “So many memories. If there were ever a room with secrets, it’s this one.”

  “You wanted to know about your family. This is the best way to learn.”

  Lucy swiped her finger over the edge of the dusty desk. “Be careful what you wish for, right?”

  “Well then, buckle up, buttercup. Because we’re going to find a few secrets in this time capsule.”

  Lucy picked up a Time magazine that dated back to the eighties. “Where do we start?”

  “There are bins in the back of my truck. Let’s line them up on the porch outside. We’ll start with Donate and Keep. Trash goes straight into the dumpster. Then we’ll decide what to do with whatever we keep.”

  Her identical plastic bins were sturdy, though they seemed inadequate the longer she stood in this room. But this project had to start somewhere.

  “I’m also on the lookout for buried treasure to sell,” Lucy said. “Claire might have left the house to me, but every dime in the trust is earmarked for property upkeep, not me. And I need cash. Twelve-year-old girls are expensive to raise.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find a few treasures that fit the bill.”

  Lucy glanced at the clock. “Speaking of which, Natasha will be here by three. She’s been anxious to get into all this.”

  “But you not so much? In fact, you look a little nervous.”

  Lucy smoothed her hands over her jeans. “I didn’t like Samuel Jessup,” she said.

  “You never met him.”

  “Whatever happened between my mother and him drove her away from Cape Hudson. If not for that, I might have known more about where I came from.” She shrugged, then picked up a book on maritime law and leafed through it. “I’ll get the bins from the back of the truck and put them on the porch.”