“Thanks.”
Lucy left, and as Megan stood in the room alone, she could almost feel the hum of emotion and memories. She imagined Samuel sitting at the window, staring out toward a sunset, his stooped shoulders weighed down by loneliness. As she moved toward the desk, a rush of tears welled in her eyes. The one time she had ever experienced such a sense of loss was when Scott died.
Megan wiped away the tears and stepped back. Suddenly she needed to breathe and stepped out onto the porch. The sunshine and fresh air brushed away the foggy feeling and the last of the shadows. Closing her eyes, she tipped her face toward the sun and shook off the mood.
Lucy opened the tailgate of Megan’s truck and grabbed the first five bins. As she climbed the stairs, Megan turned toward the side of the porch and blinked away the last of the tears.
“I don’t think these bins are going to cut it,” Lucy said.
Megan cleared her throat. “No. Not even close.”
In the distance the sound of tires on the gravel driveway had her turning to see the sheriff’s car rounding the corner. Lucy waved and walked casually down the steps toward Sheriff Rick Markham’s vehicle. He stepped out of his car, his gaze sweeping over the house and then settling on Megan in a quick, efficient way that made her think of a commander inspecting one of his marine infantrymen.
Lucy nodded. “Welcome to Operation Declutter.”
Standing at six feet, Rick had broad shoulders and dark hair still cut tight on the sides and high on the top. He sported a freshly ironed uniform that managed to stay in pristine condition no matter what. Rick had escorted Scott’s remains home and then relocated to Cape Hudson right after the funeral. Late last summer, the former sheriff had retired for health reasons, and Rick had won a special election.
Rick and Scott had been the best of friends, and it seemed he had been standing guard over Scott and her ever since.
“I’ve seen the inside and know you have your hands full,” Rick said.
“I don’t suppose you have a flamethrower in that police car of yours. I’m half tempted to scorch it and then start fresh.”
“Law enforcement frowns upon arson,” Rick said with a straight face.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lucy said.
Megan envied their easy banter. Anytime she tried to talk to Rick, her thoughts and words twisted, and she felt like she had said something wrong.
As if sensing her, his gaze shifted to her. Megan’s cheeks warmed as she stared at Rick.
She quickly flicked back her bangs and jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. “Show’s about to start.”
Her lighthearted reference to the renovation skidded right by him like a pebble on the water. “Megan, how did the trip into Norfolk go?” he asked.
It did not surprise her that he knew she’d had a prenatal appointment. Like Helen, he was protecting Scott’s legacy.
“Great. Heartbeat is strong, and she’s growing like a weed. Estimates put her at nine pounds at delivery.”
“And your blood pressure?”
“Always normal,” she said.
Lucy glanced up toward the clear, blue sky. “We’ve been waiting for warm weather and a dry day. Thankfully, it’ll last until Friday.”
“I thought there was no rain in sight for ten days,” Rick countered.
“Not according to Arlene at the diner,” Lucy said. “She swears we’ll have rain by Saturday.”
“Then I suppose we will,” Rick said. “She’s never wrong.”
“Let’s get going,” Megan said.
Rick looked up at the house and appeared pensive. Upon his return to Cape Hudson, he had taken it upon himself to check in with Samuel on a regular basis. He had tried several times to convince Samuel to consider assisted living, but the old man had refused, saying he had all he needed on the first floor of his house. Rick was the sheriff by the time he found Samuel dead in his chair in the room they were now cleaning out. “House may look like a disaster to us, but Samuel knew where every item was. Ask him about a book, he could find it on the shelf. A receipt, he had it. The man’s mind was sharp as a tack until the end.”
“Good to know,” Lucy said.
He took the bins from Lucy and lined them up side by side on the porch. As he set them out and studied the neat labels marked on the sides, he frowned. “Try not to let Megan overdo it. I know she works for you and the estate now, but go easy on her.”
“Not my habit to slave-drive pregnant women,” Lucy said.
“I’m standing right here,” Megan said. “And capable of answering questions.”
Rick pinned Megan with his gaze. “I don’t trust you to throttle back when you’re tired. You’ve always pushed yourself too hard.”
Suddenly, she felt crabbier, if that were possible, and when she spoke, her irritability hummed through her words. “I’m doing fine. And thank you for your concern.”
Unfazed, he shifted his attention back to the house. “Samuel didn’t use the upstairs. He was never really comfortable in this house, so he spent all his time in the den or the kitchen. But as you’ve already seen, he liked to read, and there wasn’t a book or a magazine he could bring himself to throw out.”
After Samuel retired from the sea, he had become a bit of a recluse and had rarely been in town. Few people under seventy knew much about him.
“Did he ever speak about my mom?” Lucy asked.
Rick pulled in a breath, holding it as if he wished he had better news. “He never said a word about family. I asked him a few times about relatives, but he was always tight lipped. Once he grumbled that he liked being on his own, though I don’t think he meant it.”
“Did he talk about anything?” Lucy asked.
“Only way to get Samuel talking was to talk about the merchant marines.” Rick dug the tip of his boot into the chipped paint on the porch floor and watched it flake away. The paint had been a short-term fix to cover rotting wood. “Sometimes the wounds are so deep it’s best to leave them be. Trying to repair them only makes it worse.”
“Perhaps, but we’ve got to try.” Lucy looked up at the peeling siding and the shutters with the broken slats. “I’d like to think anything could be mended.”
Rick looked inside the house toward the clutter. “Not everything, Lucy.”
Megan suspected they weren’t talking about Beth’s relationship with her father, Samuel, any longer.
CHAPTER THREE
Diane Hedrick
Age 9
Friday, August 24, 1900
Cape Hudson, Virginia
Noon
Wreaths wrapped in black crepe and decorated with sprigs of seagrass hung from the teak front doors of Addie and Isaac Hedrick’s small bayside cottage. The thick scent of lilies blended with warm salt air streaming in through the windows. The smell of pies baked by the local women of Cape Hudson lingered as the grandfather clock ticked.
Diane sat on the fourth step on the small staircase and watched as her oldest sister, Claire, opened the pocket doors and beckoned her forward. “Diane, come in here, will you? Have a look at Mama.”
“I don’t want to remember her that way,” Diane said. “She promised we’d go into town next week.”
Though Claire was only twelve, her frown mimicked their mother’s. “Please.”
Their mother had gone into labor with her seventh child yesterday, and after hours of screams, she had grown silent.
Diane slowly rose from the steps and smoothed the wrinkles from the brown gingham skirt normally reserved for Sundays. The heavy fabric itched her skin, and the high collar made it tough for her to breathe.
Floorboards squeaked under her feet as she entered the parlor. Choking back tears, she turned toward the coffin resting on the dining table. Desperate to see her mother again, she rushed up to the edge, only to halt at the sight before her.
Her mother had never been fussy about her appearance in life. Seemingly always pregnant, she’d filled her days with children, gardening, and running a h
ousehold alone while her husband traveled the seas as a merchant marine. Diane’s mama barely had time to sit and eat a meal, let alone comb her hair or press a blouse.
However, Claire had seen to it that, in death, their mother was outfitted in her favorite blue dress, her salt-and-pepper hair was arranged in a neat topknot, and her favorite scrimshaw broach—given to her by her husband on their wedding day—was pinned above her heart.
“Diane, the others have said goodbye to Mama,” Claire said. “It’s your turn now.”
She looked at her siblings clustered to the side. Jemma was a year younger than Claire and she held their newest baby brother, Michael, who squawked as she rocked him softly. Next to her was her sister Sarah, who held the hands of their one- and two-year-old brothers, Joseph and Stanley. Tears glistened from the girls’ eyes as the little boys huddled close, knowing something was wrong but too afraid to ask.
As Diane stood by the coffin, aware of the ticking clock that clicked in time with her drumming heart. Ticktock. Bang. Ticktock. Bang. She kept her gaze downcast on her fingers threaded so tightly her knuckles were white. Her mother was so still. She wanted so much to jostle her and demand she wake up.
Ticktock. Bang.
“Say goodbye,” Claire whispered. “This is your last chance. After today, she’s gone forever.”
“Gone where?” Diane asked.
“She’s with God now.”
Diane studied her mother’s still, pale face. Her hands were folded, left hand over right on her chest so that her plain wedding band caught the afternoon light streaming in a window. Her face possessed a peace and serenity Diane had never remembered seeing before. Claire had said Mama was dead, but how could she be dead when she had been laughing and eating an apple just two days ago?
Diane had always feared the dead. But she was not afraid of her mother. She did not look scary at all. Instead, she looked so peaceful that Diane thought for a brief second she was teasing and any moment would sit up and smile. She reached inside the casket and brushed a stray strand away from her mother’s cool face.
“Please, wake up, Mama,” she whispered.
Claire laid a hand on her shoulder.
Diane reached for her mother’s fingers. They weren’t warm and soft but cold and stiff. Whatever she was touching now was not her mother, and she drew her fingers back. Any notion of Mama being alive shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
Diane took Claire’s hand, grateful it was warm and smooth, and tightened her grip. “What are we going to do without Mama? Who will take care of us?”
“We have to leave Cape Hudson,” Claire whispered.
“Where will we go?”
“Jemma and Sarah are going to live with cousins. I’m going with the Buchanan family, and you’re going to live with the LeBlanc family. The boys are going to move in with the Jessup family.”
“Why can’t we stay in this house with Papa?” When she looked up, she realized Claire’s eyes were red rimmed and her face was as ashen as when she had become sick with the measles last year.
Claire slowly drew in a breath as if it hurt. “Papa can’t keep us. He returns to sea in two weeks.”
“Why can’t he stay with us?”
“He has to work,” she said in a rush of frustration and sadness. “We have to work now.”
Diane turned to her mother and jostled her shoulder. If her mother could just wake up, then they could all stay together as a family. “Mama, get up. I need you. Wake up!”
Tears welled in her eyes and streamed over her cheeks. “Mama, please.”
Claire wrapped her arms around Diane’s shoulders and pulled her close. “She’s gone.”
Diane began to cry, letting all the fear trapped inside her flood out. She prayed to God to bring her mother back, swearing she would do her chores and take care of her younger brothers. She made bargain after bargain. But her mother’s eyes did not open. She did not draw in a breath. She did not promise that everything would be all right.
“Why did she leave us?” Diane gasped between sobs. “Why? I thought she loved us.”
“She would have stayed if she could.”
“She could have tried harder.”
“She tried. She fought,” Claire whispered.
Diane fisted handfuls of Claire’s sleeves. “Can’t we stay? Please?”
A sob caught in Claire’s throat as she kissed Diane on the top of the head. The scent of lilies and beeswax wafted about her. “I want us to stay together.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to leave, Claire. Promise me we’ll be a family forever.”
“No matter what, I’ll be there for you.”
Miss Diane Hedrick
Baltimore, Maryland
December 2, 1902
Dear Claire,
You were wrong. I still do not love the city. It smells. There are too many people. Mr. LeBlanc is nice, but he has an endless number of visitors that come at all times of the day and night. He is constantly in meetings, and it seems someone always wants to collect money from him.
Madame LeBlanc talks of returning to France. She says her late husband’s cousin owns a castle on the coast of Normandy. She says he is very rich and is sure to welcome his family and young charge with open arms. I suppose this is why she insists I learn French.
Madame LeBlanc also has a nephew, Pierre, who is an odd sort. He is five years older than me but is as moody as an old man. He stares at me in an odd way, but as long as Mr. LeBlanc is in the house, Pierre leaves me be.
The LeBlancs are nothing like our friends in Cape Hudson. They do not work. They play cards, go to parties, and worry about what each in their group is doing.
I am doing as you say and keeping my thoughts to myself. “Cheery faces,” as Mama used to say.
I fear the times will never be better. Mama is dead, and Papa has sent you away, along with Jemma, Sarah, the boys, and me. We will never be a family again. I am an orphan and alone in this world. Promises are like butterflies. Beautiful. Colorful. Easily crushed and broken.
Your Dearest Sister,
Diane
Miss Claire Hedrick
New York, New York
December 16, 1902
Dearest Diane,
I have knitted you this scarf in the way Mama taught me. I may have worked the needles and yarn, but I felt her hands guiding me. So consider this our Christmas present to you.
Madame LeBlanc tells me you are a diligent worker, but that you are very quiet. I almost wrote her back and questioned whether she had the right girl because the Diane I remember never stopped talking. The Buchanans will be sailing to Paris in the spring, and they mean to take me along with them so that I can attend to Miss Victoria. I wish you could come. I hear it is a city of lights, and the Eiffel Tower stands almost one thousand feet high. It is a sight to behold. Perhaps if Madame LeBlanc returns to France, our paths will cross.
Remember, the Buchanans recommended Madame LeBlanc. Being in her employ is sure to set you up for a better life. Mama wanted us to have more than Cape Hudson could offer, and you must not give up hope.
You and I will never be orphans. We have each other, the girls and boys, as well as Papa, who promised we would be home for Christmas next year. We are rich in each other. Don’t ever forget that. Have a very merry Christmas.
Your Devoted Sister,
Claire
January 18, 1903
Dear Claire,
Mr. LeBlanc died two weeks ago. The funeral was a quiet affair with only Madame LeBlanc, Pierre, and me in attendance. Madame LeBlanc says we need to get ready to pack our belongings and leave Baltimore. She has written to the cousin in France asking him for shelter. I don’t belong in France any more than I belong in Baltimore. Home seems so far away, now.
Your Dearest Sister,
Diane
CHAPTER FOUR
Megan
Monday, March 5, 2018
Cape Hudson, Vi
rginia
11:00 a.m.
“I’d forgotten how bad it was.” Rick’s frown deepened as his gaze trailed over the piles of clutter. “This is going to take forever.”
Raising her chin, Megan moved behind the desk and lowered herself into the worn leather chair. From this vantage point, the piles looked more like fortifications.
“It’s a miracle you found him at all,” Lucy said as she surveyed the room.
“He was sitting by the fireplace in his recliner,” Rick said. “He sat there almost all the time toward the end, and at first, I thought he was sleeping.”
“I don’t see a television,” Lucy said.
“He never had much use for one. He liked to read, but when his eyesight began to fail, he’d walk up to Winter Cottage and sit on the porch and stare out over the water. In the last few weeks, he didn’t even do that. Whenever I stopped by, he was mumbling like he was having a conversation.”
“With whom?” Megan asked.
“He never would say, and I didn’t ask. I just assumed he was getting old. He asked me several times to find some of his old journals and read them to him.”
Lucy followed the path to a chair by the fireplace. She cleared off the stacks of books, sat, and selected an old bound green journal. “It’s dated 1939,” she said as she thumbed through it. “What was so special about that year?”
Rick shrugged. “He was running supplies to the English. With the German U-boats patrolling, it was dangerous work. World War II had just broken out in Europe.”
Megan fanned through a stack of unopened junk mail. “Lucy, designate a box for Samuel’s journals and any personal papers you can find. I’ll start tossing junk mail.”
Rick’s radio buzzed with a call from his dispatcher summoning him to a car accident north of town. He responded back with a 10-4. “I’m going to have to go. When does the moving crew arrive?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Megan said. “I thought we could get ahead of them today and start prioritizing what to save and to toss. I think we’ll be lucky to get his desk cleared.”
Lucy was still flipping through the pages of the journal. “The man had terrible handwriting. Just like Beth.”
“Do me a favor and save the heavy lifting. Hank and I will be back around six,” Rick said.
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